


Doctor Who - The Hour - AU - "Collide"

by Samstown4077



Series: Randall Brown - Head of News [1]
Category: Doctor Who, Doctor Who (2005), The Hour, The Thick of It (TV)
Genre: Crossover, Drama, F/M, Falling In Love, Friendship, Rated M for later Chapters, Romance, Slow Burn, The Hour/Doctor Who AU, University AU, possible side character death in later chapters, somesort of, whouffaldi
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2014-12-05
Updated: 2015-05-08
Packaged: 2018-02-28 04:02:29
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 29
Words: 88,688
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/2718083
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Samstown4077/pseuds/Samstown4077
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Clara Oswald, English Literature Professor and Randall Brown, the Head of PR and Communication work at the University of Glasgow. They have never met before, but then coincidence finally makes up its mind. See what happens when two people who couldn't be more different collide. Slow Burn. Romance. Doctor Who/The Hour - Whouffaldi (somehow)</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. 01_The Girl from Blackpool

**Author's Note:**

> So, this is my attempt for a Randall Brown/Clara Oswald Crossover, Whouffaldi Doctor Who The Hour AU. I don’t even know how to call this. An AU in an AU, maybe?!  
> Before you read it, have some longer notes - just to introduce the story and so you can find out if it will be something for you and what you can expect from it.
> 
> First things first, don’t hit me, but this can go under “University AU”. Yes I know what you might think, “gosh another one”, but it’s no Teacher/Student one.  
> Randall Brown is the head of PR and Communications for the Glasgow University and Clara Oswald is (you might have foreseen that one) Professor for English Literature. I’m not an expert for University nor for the Glaswegian one, so please be tolerant with me. The main topic is not the University - I just needed a reasonable place where both of them could show up and a newsroom is even less my major, so I went for University and the main topic of this fic are the characters not the place this story plays. 
> 
> The story is mainly planned out and I have written a lot in advance, so I hope there will be no delays in publishing, what will be weekly maybe more often. This is my first multi chapter fic, I start to publish without having written the end yet. 
> 
> This will be a long story, something like a slow burn. I have a storyline at hand, that can be easily 20 chapters or more - can’t tell yet. If you expect a “hard against the console” scene (even there is no Tardis) in Chapter 2, you might want to skip this one.
> 
> In case you are a die-hard Lix x Randall shipper, you might want to skip it too. But I will deal with his backstory and I have a reasonable story at hand, why there is no more Lix for him and I am planning a reunion - can’t tell more, that might would spoil it.
> 
> My native is not English, but I have a Beta (massive thanks to fetchingsort from tumblr), who tries to erase all my horrible mistakes, but in case you only read Level A FFs, skip that one.
> 
> This story plays in the NOW time and for that I had to adjust the timeline of Randall and Clara. Clara is slightly older and Randall is slightly younger. Events that had happened in “The Hour” I have moved forward in time, they have happened as you might know it, just under other circumstances. 
> 
> You will come across a few familiar characters from “Doctor Who”, “The Hour” and “The Thick of it”. Why invent new faces, when you have a pool of dozens. 
> 
> Of course you will come across some DW, TH and TTOI references, and while reading you will surely notice some fine Doctor and Malcolm Tucker characterizations in Randall. The face brings it with it, but don’t worry, I feel very protective of Randall Brown and there will be no real sweary Malcolm Tucker moment.  
> It is not necessary to have seen The Hour nor The Thick of It. It helps, but I assume most people know the characters from tumblr and other fics.
> 
> I am open for ideas, remarks, constructive critic and your honest opinion.
> 
> Now, enjoy the story!

How could one - who was not born here - even think to settle down here? In Scotland, where the wind blows sharp as a knife and the temperature was more moody than some teenager on a Monday morning. 

Clara Oswald had no problem with Scotland itself - god beware, she only had a problem with the weather, and some grumpy old neighbours, who never missed a chance to tell her, that she simply was not made for this beautiful country - in other words, “Ya darn Blackpudlian, better go home!”. 

She couldn’t remember another word out of their mouth, since she had moved into her flat in Glasgow. 

“Why did I come here?” Clara muttered. “Ah, yeah, teaching. Here. Dead in a ditch. Great idea! Brilliant idea, Clara!” 

She shook her head while approaching the stairs which led to the main entrance. She was not in the best mood. The bus she initially wanted to take simply didn’t show up, so she had to wait for the next one, and was now late. Let alone cold.

It was the first of October and for some reason it seemed the leaves had turned orange over night and the temperature had dropped at least a hundred degrees. Well, all that was her personal opinion - she was not a meteorologist, so she might was wrong about it. 

It didn’t change the fact, that she was late and she was cold. Maybe she should go back to London, where she had teached before. 

She was actually quite happy there - well, pleased. To be happy is always a big achievement. She had a nice tiny flat, a great job, no boyfriend and a stepmother who never missed a chance to point out to it. So it came, that she accepted - after two glass of wine - the offer from the Glaswegian University to teach English Literature one year ago. (There was maybe a considerable pay raise involved too.) Within four weeks she had packed all her stuff, had found a new flat in Glasgow and had made her goodbyes to friends and family - her greatest moment of pure rebellion. The only thing that made her hesitate in the end was her dad. And she felt terrible sorry for leaving him behind like this. 

“Don’t you worry about me, sweetheart,” he had told her, with one of his warm smiles. “It’s Glasgow, not the end of the world.” For Clara, it literally was the end of the world.

After Blackpool, she had moved to London and after that, she had moved to Glasgow. Nothing in between, no travel to another country. Not even Irland or so. No, it was always this darn island. When she had turned 30, she had taken the book “101 Places to see” from the shelf and had placed it in the darkest box in the basement she could find. Now, she was almost 32 and at least once a month she woke up at night, having a dream about settling down in Glasgow - forever. She never had a worse nightmare in her life. 

Maybe it was just one of these days, she thought.

“Clara!” she heard her name behind her, while climbing up the stairs. 

“Danny!” Sweet little Danny Pink. He caught up to her, his bag around his shoulders and a paper cup of coffee in his hand. 

They both had started working at the same time. His taught math, and she had been glad that she wasn’t the only new face. So they had connected quickly. 

“You look unhappy,” he smirked while sipping from his coffee, Clara envied him for. There was no time to walk by her favourite cafe to get some, so she would need to take potluck with the nasty one from the break room. 

“It is Monday morning, I am late, I am cold and I have no coffee,” she huffed. “I hate this town!”

“No, you don’t, you are just in a bad mood. I remember you praising it two weeks ago,” he offered her his half drunken coffee with a gesture and she happily took it from him. They both knew what the coffee from the break room would do to her. She would start to eat at least two of her students alive - with no regret.

“That was only because I had a good day,” she smirked. 

Sweet Danny Pink. They had dated a few times, but nothing ever came off it. He was a good looking guy, former military man, smart, charming and he was good with kids - her stepmother would say, he was perfect. 

After a couple of dates, and their first kiss, they had realized they didn’t “click”. So they stopped dating and started sharing some lunch and some dinners as friends, a half year later he finally found the courage to ask Sissy Cooper from the University administration office out for a date - since then they were together. Clara was happy for him, Sissy was the good heart of the administration office, and had a solution for everything. Adorable Coop, she called her. 

“How is adorable Coop? You both had a nice weekend?” she asked while they both headed toward the post room to get their mail. 

“We had a nice dinner, at Mancinis. Very good food, not that pricey, you should try it out one day.”

They both approached their mail compartment, two of 150. “Yeah, can’t imagine why I should do that. Hi, I am Clara Oswald, do you have a table for one, please? No, really, I have some self respect, Danny.”

Leaving the room, he sighed, “You know what I mean. No one said you should go alone. I am sure you will find someone. Glasgow has nice man, you know that, don’t you? There are not all like your neighbors.” 

“Well, they are like 110, so they don’t count from market economy perspective,” she was not in the mood to talk about the fact, that she seemed unable to find someone capable of being a good boyfriend. She had dated a few men, but it was the same as with Danny, she couldn’t connect with them. “I’ll die old and grey and alone.”

“No, you won’t!” he slapped her softly with his letters. “You’ll find someone.”

“How do you know? It is easy talking for someone in a relationship,” Clara sorted through her mails, but decided she had no time to go through it and shoved them into her bag. 

“Because you are intelligent, warm hearted and not that bad looking. Only three of the many aspects that frighten most men. I am sure when you stop searching, the right one will fall in front of your feet,” he gave her a quick hug, a wink and excused himself to his study hall.

“You are a good friend, Danny Pink!” she called after him, he turned around for a moment only to shoot her another grin and a thanking bow. 

She emptied the paper cup, and headed toward her classroom. She was not really in the mood, but she had to give a lecture about Jane Eyre, its social criticism and morality. 

 

\---

After 90 minutes of lecture, Clara fell exhausted into her stool. Bejant/Bejantine were the worst. They asked way too many questions, not because they were interested, more because they feared to do something wrong. She knew of some professors, whom loved Bejant/Bejantine, because they kissed the ground the Professor walked on. Needy gameplayers, she called them. Personally she liked the Tertian, they had some kind of ‘I don’t give a fuck’ attitude, before they became Magistrand. At this point they finally listened to what she said and figured out, not to ask too many questions, which would set up boundaries for the works they had to hand in.* 

It took her a minute to find her way back into the present, and she remembered her letters from the post office. Grabbing into her bag, she pulled out the pile and tried to sort them out. Most of them were memos from the principal, news and updates. Some student requests for an appointment and a new print of the Glasgow University Guardian. Clara shoved the papers, except the newspaper back into her bag and unfolded the Guardian. There, a letter, that had slipped between the newspaper, fell down to the ground. She followed its fall with her eyes, and prevented it from sliding under the table by stepping onto it with her boot. 

“Gotcha!” leaning down, she noticed the odd handwriting on it. Usually all the letters were printed, even the addresses. Not this one. The front had her name on it, Professor Clara Oswald, English Literature, Art and Literature Department. She turned the small thing around and frowned at its addressor. Randall Brown. Office 7.043. Nothing more.

Clara lowered the letter into her lap and fixated on a chair in the last row of the classroom, trying to remember the name. Nothing. She didn’t know someone with the name. She shrugged it off, she couldn’t know everyone, the University was far too big. Opening and reading it, made her stumble. 

‘Please make an appointment for your interview at the 8th, so we can brief you about topics and policy. Sincere regards, R. Brown’

“What?” Clara had no clue what this was about. What interview and who the hell was Randall Brown? She felt she had missed something important. 

The call of her name yanked her out of her reflections, “Clara, there you are! I am looking for you ever since,” the woman approached her hastily. 

“Nicola!” Clara trilled. Nicola Murray, the head of the Art and Literature department. In her forties, married, two kids, stressed out and always on the hop. She liked Nicola, at least some bits of her, she was very engaged, lovely but she had an aura of chaos around her. After a while Clara had recognized that she was always doing a good pace. She seemed to run from one appointment to the next. Danny suggested it was because of her short political career 10 years ago. 

There were times Clara wanted to tell her to come down a little, breath, relax, chill out, like her students sometimes suggested behind her back, before she would die because of a heart attack, but she was her boss, and she had bigger problems as to tell a workaholic to chill out. 

“I totally forgot to tell you about your interview,” she kneaded her fingers in distress. She didn’t liked to admit, that it was her fault, probably because it happened quite a lot. 

Clara held up the letter, “what interview, Nicola?”

“For the GUST, the Glasgow University Student Television. The Department has to give some overviews over the single subjects. You go for English Literature.”

“Why me? Why not Glenn? He is here since, I don’t know 1983.”

“Are you kidding me? Glenn? Glenn looks like a salesman for suits from the 1980’s, not like an English Literature Professor,” she waved hectically.

Clara made a gesture with her mouth. She had a point, because Glenn not only looked like one, he also talked like one. “So it is me then? Since when do you know?”

Nicola made a grimace, that told her everything, “Forget it. Tell me at least, who is Randall Brown?”

That earned her an expression of disbelief, “You don’t know the Caledonian ghost of news?”

“The what?”

“Randall Brown is the Head of Public Relations. He is responsible for the Glasgow University Guardian and the Glasgow University Student Television, the GUG and the GUST.”

“He is a Professor?” Clara was confused. 

“He is a journalist. Joined us three years ago, from London. He is a bit odd, but he is the best,” Nicola was already about to leave her alone again, by turning on her heels.

“Why did you call him a ghost?” Clara grabbed her bag and followed her.

Nicola smiled at her, with a bit too much pity as Clara found. “You told me, you don’t know him, and I assume you haven’t met him yet.”

“No, I can’t tell that I have.” 

“See. That’s why we call him a ghost. You’ll see. I have to go now, they want an interview from me too, and I really have to change before that. Bye!” with that Nicola dashed out of the door and vanished in the floors of the University.

Clara smirked. Everytime she saw her, she remembered last year, when she came up with the idea to make a little public relations event in form of a neo expressionistic theme based garden party - in November. In Scotland. She was really convinced about the idea, till someone obviously had told her that the idea was totally bananas. Clara never really had bothered who it was, but had made a mental note to thank the man or the woman, when she, by small chance would ever meet the saviour. Peering down to the letter, she had a hunch. 

“Office 7.043 it will be,” she whispered, still quarreling with the lack of good coffee in her veins and made her way up to meet some ghost.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> That's it for Chapter One, please feel free to leave a comment. I am open for ideas and critic. I'll try to publish weekly, so stay tuned!
> 
> *From wikipedia:  
> At the four ancient Scottish universities the traditional name students for the four years at university Bejant/Bejantine (1st), semi (2nd), Tertian (3rd) and Magistrand (4th).


	2. 02_The Caledonian Ghost

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Meet Randall Brown.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I write here about something that seems only to be in my country. Some restaurants have little shelves with funny, witty and cheeky postcards in front of the restrooms (as commercial) and you can take them with you - some people collect them. There is a short passage about this, so now you are not confused.

Clara found the office on the last floor in the same wing as her office. Hers was on the fourth floor and this seemed to be the last floor before the stairs went up to the attic. At least that was her impression. 

She had to check a few doors before she found the one with the number 7.043, a filled wastepaper bin aside, near the stairs but not in obvious sight. The fact that his office was not far away from her own made her wonder if she really never had seen him before. Yes, she taught in another part of the building, but she visits her office every day and the man must leave his office from time to time. For work, food, going home. Her curiosity grew. 

Standing in front of the door, she surveyed some thick metall silver letters, affixed directly onto the wooden door. 

“How odd,” her head tilted as if it would help her to build words out of the letters.

R a n d a l l B r o w n

It was the only door that had its owners name highlighted like this. Everyone else simply had some plastic sign on the right, with some labeled cards in it. Easy to replace. Glancing to the right, she saw the square sign - empty. Smiling, slightly shaking her head, she knocked three times. Not even the headmasters had door signs like this. Either someone was very certain of his job, or simply quirky. 

“Come in!” a voice echoed from inside and Clara opened the door, not without taking the chance to brush her fingertips against the letters. 

She took one step inside, her gaze automatically fell toward the work desk in front of a row of little windows at the end of the room. The chair behind the desk was empty, so she took a second step inside and looked around, finding by the right wall someone laying on a couch - carved by Freud himself it seemed to her. She guessed it was the owner of the office, Randall Brown, even if she couldn’t see his face because he was reading a folder with some documents in it. 

Clearing her throat, “Do I come in an inconvenient moment? Shall I come back later?” 

The folder got lowered and a pair of eyes, framed behind black retro looking glasses appeared. He eyed her quizzically, without saying something.

Clara asked, “I know the office door says it very clear, but… you are Randall Brown, are you?”

The man returned to upright position, closed the folder, and placed it aside from him on the surface of the leather. Without haste, he scanned Clara and she could see that he tried to place her somewhere. The way he squinted his eyes told her, he didn’t know her, and so she was right in her assumption, that they indeed never had met before. 

“Yes, I am,” he grabbed for the folder, and stood up, straightening his suit jacket. “We don’t have an appointment, do we?” he asked. He glanced down his watch, holding it then to his ear for a moment, and then walked over to his desk and placed the folder onto it. 

Clara took the few seconds to let his impression sink in. Randall Brown - a Scotsman, going by his mocking byname and his accent - a man in the beginning of his fifties, tall, she guessed he was near 6 feet tall. Even from the distance she had to look up to him, with her 5ft 2. His lean figure was highlighted with a bespoke, dark blue suit, under a matching waistcoat a white shirt and the black tie finished his appearance in a very sharp manner. His hair, in shades of grey and black, combed backward. She realized, that his piercing eyes were directed at her, waiting for an explanation of her being in his office, so she quickly broke eye contact in case she had stared at him. 

Raising the letter from him, “I got your message. I’m Clara Oswald. You told me to come by to discuss my interview,” she gave him a smile to which he didn’t react

“Oh, yes, I remember. English literature,” he frowned at her, checking the fit of his glasses with his right hand. “You are late.” 

“Well,” Clara rose one hand in excuse, “I didn’t know about the interview till today.”

He walked around his desk, moved the folder he just had placed there to the other side of the desk, lining it up exactly to the desk’s edge. He then opened another folder, his finger gliding down a list. 

Clara didn’t know what to say, did he assume she was lying or was he just correct? Glancing around in his office, she registered shelves with many books, a pinboard with notes, newspaper cutouts and some pictures, all in line, none in any way slanted. His desk was a paradigm for order and cleanliness. She saw no computer, no mobile phone and no radio. Only lots of papers, pens, and a frame, might be a picture of his wife or family, she guessed. She couldn’t see it from her point of view. 

At the side, shelves, filled with books. Not that she knew him in the slightest at this point, she only had made her assumptions, had subconsciously taken the little bits and pieces she had collected through her observations and had formed an impression of him. She guessed they were all sorted alphabetically, followed by color, topic, and then probably by birth date of the author. She bit her lip to suppress her amusement. 

‘Don’t be rude, Clara,’ she thought before stepping to the bookshelf to find out. 

Randall stopped when he saw her move in the corner of his eye, and watched her, while she scanned over the titles. Although she has worked here for a year, he can’t remember seeing her before - he knew that from the basic information sheet he always asks for from the administration office for each interview partner. 

She wore boots with high heels and was still very small to him. It occurred to him, she couldn’t reach the top shelf without them. A fact, that amused him - deep inside. Another fact that he wondered about was why she had left London. He knew at least four of his students who wanted to work at the ULC (University College London) when to get the chance, even when they would be offered a job here in Glasgow. She probably had her reasons, he thought, and pushed it aside. He knew, it was none of his business.

When she wanted to touch one of his books, he reached out to her with words, “I sent it out two weeks ago, over to the head of your department.” 

Clara’s hand backed away from the books, and she walked back to the spot she had stood initially, “Yes, Nicola Murray.” 

She didn’t wanted to put the blame on her and let her look bad, but she didn’t wanted to look incapable either. Her inner debate got put to an end when Randall closed the file with a little thud and gave the mentioning of Nicola a knowing hum.

“That explains your delay,” his voice was rigorous but she sensed, it wasn’t meant for her.

“Sorry,” she answered automatically and in reaction he lowered his chin a bit.

“Don’t be,” his expression softened until it was almost unnoticeable. ”I know Professor Murray and her…,” he thought about a single word he could describe her with. He found many, but none would go alone. None would be very pleasant. 

“Talents?” Clara suggested dryly, knowing her eyes were betraying her sarcasm.

His fingernails tapped against the wood of his desk while they exchanged looks, “That is one way of putting it, yes.”

She felt he wanted to say something more about it when his lips parted again, but he seemed to decide otherwise and closed them again into a thoughtful purse-lipped expression. He checked the watch again, and stepped around his desk toward her. “Professor Oswald, I have to be in the studio in ten minutes, do you mind following me? I will hand you over to Mister Lyon there, one of my students who will do the interview with you.”

He had already opened the door, and waited for her to move. She knew there was no other answer as to follow him. “Fine.”

Randall nodded, closed the door and made long strides toward the steps. Clara had to hurry to follow him. 

‘Typical Newsman,’ she thought. 

Two floors down, Randall pulled out the key for the lift out of his pocket and inserted it into the lock. “Have you done something like this before?” he asked, while they waited. 

“An interview? On TV? No, actually not, I am an English literature teacher, not a famous pop singer,” it was a helpless try to break the ice with the man they called a ghost. 

He blinked two times at her before he answered and before the lift arrived with a faint “ding”. “I’m glad you aren’t, the opinions of pop singers are way too overrated in this world and personally I don’t give much about them.”

She squinted at him, trying to figure out if he got her joke and if there was one hidden in his words. “There are pop singers, who try to rescue the world, you know that?” she stepped beside from him.

Checking the fit of his tie he pressed the button for the basement, where the studio was, he asked, “And who could that be, Professor Oswald?”

“Bono. Bob Geldof and what about John Lennon?” Secretly she had asked herself, at which point he had decided to make a political discussion out of her poor try of making a joke. 

Randall turned his head to her, and only his head, “Bono? Geldof? Lennon?”

Clara answered before she did think about it, “Don’t tell me you don’t listen to the radio and news as a journalist? You know these people, don’t you?”

The lift reached the basement. “Professor Oswald-”

“-Clara. If it’s not too much to ask. You are not one of my students, so please, … just Clara. Thats totally fine.”

The door was wide open, but he wasn’t about to move, he just looked at her, over the edges of his glasses. Piercing down at her with his greenish eyes, it was so intense she wanted to look away, but she held his stare. His expression softens suddenly, “Then they should have become politicians, world savers, superheroes.. I don’t know,” he stepped outside, turning around to her, “But not pop singers.” 

He didn’t wait for her, just headed off to the studio, the next interview would start in a few minutes and he hated to be late - what he usually never was. 

She caught up to him again, when he was already standing behind a big wall of glass, behind it the studio, an interview room. Cameras, lights, people buzzing around. In the middle two chairs. On the left side sat a dashing young man with black hair, he wore a grey shirt with the slogan “Save the Arctic”. The face was familiar, she knew it from the University channel. Clara could see a pen behind his ear, only slightly covered by his longer hair. 

Randall could see it too, he huffed and stretched his shoulders tensely, checking again the fit of his tie, “Tell him about the pen, Donna!” he turned to a woman by a console, so she pressed a button and talked into a microphone in front of her. “Freddy, the pen please…”

Freddy looked up and sent a grin over to them, before slipping the pen away. 

“One minute!” someone called.

Clara could see that Randall got nervous, he was tapping the fingers of his right hand against his upper thigh, and the fingers of his left were twisting his lower lip, “Where is she?” He walked over to the microphone and repeated his question.

“Sorry! Sorry!” it was Nicola Murray. “I had to change.”

Clara couldn’t suppress her laughter, but quickly covered her mouth with her hand when she saw him scrutinize her for it. 

“Nicola Murray,” he only whispered and shook his head in disapproval. 

Nicola settled down in front of Freddy and shifted a few times in her seat, she was unsure if she should lean back or sit on the edge of the stool.

Clara noticed, “This isn’t live, isn’t it?” She was afraid it would be and only because she knew she had to give one too.

“This is not “The Hour”, Professor Oswald,” he liked his lips, and took his glasses off to clean them with a little cleaning rag out of his pockets. When he was finished, he placed them back on his nose, “But we like to give the impression of it.” Clara believed to hear a hint of a mocking tone. 

“She looks nervous,” Clara said. Knowing he could easily tell her over the microphone that it was not live and she just should relaxe. 

“I told her to go to a training, but it didn’t really help,” he paused, and gave Clara a side look, whose eyes were still directed onto Nicola. When she felt his eyes on her, she turned her head and met Randall’s. Looking back to the studio he adds “Sometimes I ask myself how she got that job as the head of the art and literature department. She has the inevitable talent of …,”

“.. of picking the worst possible time to fuck things up,” Randall’s head shot around in such a surprising haste, that one of his muscles twitched. 

Clara blushed immediately, her tongue now thick and heavy, she turned to him, pressing her lips together. His eyebrows came close together, making his look sharp and his expression stern - it made Clara feel bad about her swearing.

“Not the words I would have chosen,” it was the smallest smile Clara has ever seen, and yet a smile. “Sounds like one of these little “postcards for to go” in front of some restaurants restrooms.”

She blinked, while he shoved his hands into his pockets, watching Freddy asking Nicola some questions. Randall Brown, the man who appeared to her like he had stepped right out of the fifties, didn’t look like he went to this kind of restaurants. And it felt sudden to her, to actually think about a man, whom she had never met before, and his possible evening activities.

“You know that you are staring at me?” he pulled her out of her thoughts, without turning toward her.

‘Two times blushing in under five minutes, not bad, Clara.’ she cleared her throat, “Sorry, I was lost in thought.”

Freddy finished the interview and shook Nicola’s hand, then he waved over to Randall.

Before leaving he turned to Clara, “Lost? You don’t look like a woman who gets easily lost, ...Professor Oswald,.” He gave her exact three long seconds to think about. “Excuse me, I have to tell Nicola some words from a postcard. Freddy will take care of you in a moment.”

“A towel!” she blurred out and Randall stopped by the door. “It is from a towel, not a postcard, and… it’s still Clara.”

Freddy came to his side, glancing around between the two teachers, seeing Randall sending over a smirk toward Clara - an actual smile, that made the corners of his eyes crinkle, short, with closed lips, but honest. “A towel then.”

Freddy almost gaped at his teacher who walked over to Nicola, “Have you seen this?”

Clara blinked, “Seen what?”

“That smile.”

“Uhm.. yes,” she gestured, that she didn’t understand the problem with it. “So?”

Freddy smirked at her, “He never smiles.” With that he guided her toward a little room, so they could talk about the upcoming interview.

Clara gave Randall and Nicola a last look before she followed Freddy. Nicola looked disappointed and in distress, while Randall stood in front of her, talking, on hand in his pocket, the other slowly moving around in front of her. 

She would have given a lot to hear his version of the towel quote.


	3. 03_Colliding

Freddy pointed out to the corner of the room with a comfy looking sofa and a leather chair. Clara decided for the sofa and he sat himself beside her into the chair, taking out notebook and a pen. 

They talked for a while about the interview and what was the meaning of it and what they wanted to achieve with it. At the end Freddy closed his notebook, he had made little notes about things Clara had said, so he would remember them, when they would finally do the recording.

“Don’t tell me, this is what you do all day? Asking teachers about their subject and the goals for their students?” Clara asked.

Freddy smiled lenient, “You don’t watch our program very often, Professor Oswald, do you?”

Then it occurred to her, how she must have sounded. She blamed the lack of coffee. “This didn’t sound very nice, and it didn’t reflect well on me, did it? I have to admit, I mostly see it in the break room - when it is on mute.” She gave him an excusing smile, like she wanted to say that she had tried to put the sound back on, but had failed miserably. 

“Don’t you worry, there are teachers, they actually give a fuck about our program. They even deny us an interview,” he shrugged, surely having a few names on his tongue, but Clara saw he was reliable, and wouldn’t drag others through the mire in front of a stranger. 

“Any particular reasons for that?”

An impish smile appeared on his face when he leaned slightly closer to her. Clara copied the gesture subconsciously, like they had to fear the walls had ears. “As it seems, we don’t only ask questions about Sense and Sensibility.” 

She pouted her lips and gave him a grimace. Glenn would have made a fuss out of his behaviour, would had talked about disrespect, but Clara felt that Freddy was a nice young man, and had nothing like that in mind, he was just teasing her - a friendly reminder to go and watch the program. 

He gave her an apologetically nod before moving on, “Remember the rumours about the science professor a half year ago, who was forced into retirement?”

She couldn’t remember the name, but the accusations, “Sexuall harrasment?”

“Something like that.”

“Something like that?”

Snickering he leaned forward again, “He gave particular people, people with not so good grades, better grades, before he even interacted with them. When it came to the finals, he dropped the grades. The persons concerned, couldn’t say much about it, because, these grades were actually real. The next thing he did, was offering better grades for, well …”

Clara leaned back, “That’s insidious!”

Hands raising he said, not without sounding a bit proud, “That was us!”

“But I bet that didn’t came up on your YouTube channel,” Clara said for her defence.

“No, it didn’t,” a voice came from behind. Randall with a cup of coffee in his hand. “However, the interview the professor gave shortly before he got busted by Freddy was very entertaining afterwards. The circulation-,”

“-clicks and likes,” Freddy corrected quickly.

“Clicks and likes,” Randall repeated not without a short glare at his underling, who took it with a nonchalant smile. “They went up into the air.” Randall stepped to a sideboard by the corner, on which some magazines were laid out. 

Clara waited a few seconds, and hoped he would tell her why that was so, but nothing came so she asked him her why, which he seemed to expect from her. 

Shoving one of the magazines back into the order of the others, he turned around, “Telling how much you care about your students and feeling connected to them with some other nice little double entendres maybe wasn’t his best idea.”

“Oh,” she obviously had to change her opinion about the GUST. Randall looked at her, raising an eyebrow, she took as a approval to her intend. 

“We had to take it down, but we had quite good attention,” Freddy stood up, placing the pen behind his ear again. “One of many little happenings. We do investigative journalism here, so it is always a good idea to watch us. It could come out the most important hour of your week,” he held out his hand to her, shaking it goodbye.

“You should use that as your slogan,” she smirked at him, watching him walk to the door.

“Sadly, it is already taken,” he looked at his teacher for a moment, smiling again his boyish smirk - as if he knew he had to smile for both of them.

“It is,” Randall only stated and dismissed him with a short brush over his waistcoat. Turning to Clara, “So, are you feeling ready to give your interview next week?”

“Freddy briefed me very well, so I think I am able to answer some questions about English Literature,” she eyed his coffee mug and hoped it didn’t looked too obvious. “Or did you do some background research and dig some skeletons out of my cupboard?” 

He stopped his motion to bring the mug to his lips, “Are you giving me some notions, Miss Oswald?” 

She openly smiled at him, “Maybe I do, Mister Brown. Maybe I do.”

“Mhm,” he slowly drank from his coffee, never leaving her eyes with his. 

“What did you say to Professor Murray?” 

“It would be very indiscreet to tell you.”

Clara made a fake face of disappointment, “We are talking about Nicola Murray here and not the prime minister,” of course she could understand it, and decided not to push. “You are right, it is none of my business. Are we done here?”

“I think so, yes, if you haven’t any further questions?” 

She did as if she has to think hard about it, only to test him out, hoping he would reward her with another smile, but he kept a straight face. “If I do, I can .. call you?”

He thought about it. There is Freddy, he could deal with it, “If you feel it’s urgent.”

“Thank you, I might,” she walked past him out of the door, when she remembered something. Whirling around, she popped her head back into the room, one of her hands slapped against the door frame, “I need to know something.”

She could see Randall, who had turned his back to the door, slightly jump. “Is it a matter of urgency?”

“Absolutely.”

His eyes roamed over her face and her try to look serious. It would have worked certainly with one of her students; however, he was able to detect the playful impression she carried around in the brown of her eyes. 

“Then I am all yours.” He only realized his words when Clara gave him a short twitch with her eyebrow and her expression became amused. He decided to do as he was waiting impatiently by glancing at his watch and Clara decided to save her cheeky answer for another time. 

“Neo-expressionistic garden party,” her tongue got caught between her teeth while her eyes stayed at him to not miss the reaction.

His face went from a deep frown, about a very strange question, to perking his eyebrows in remembrance, “Yes?”

“It was you, wasn’t it?” she had made her way back into the room and now leaned against the door frame. 

Randall frowned again at her, not sure what she meant. 

“Nicola. It was you who talked her out of this ridiculous garten party last year, wasn’t it?” 

Instead of answering her, he tried to figure out what she tried to achieve with her question. There was no chance for him to solve this alone, and she looked at him in curiosity, smiling, waiting for him to say something, otherwise it seemed she would not go on. He shifted, placing the cup aside, “it was November - after all.”

Clara snorted - a ghost with fine humour maybe? “Well, I take that as a yes and to be honest, I had made a mental note to thank the person who did intervene.”

“Ah,” he said and his head tilted in silent agreement. 

“So,… thank you,” she finally said. 

He kept his straight face, no hint that he was humoured by her words, but Clara could have sworn she saw a glint in his eyes, a little sparkle of amusement. Before she could grasp it, it was gone again, and he hid his face by shoving his glasses up his nose with his hand. 

She smiled and had to look away for a moment, toward the empty cup by the magazines, at the corner of the sideboard, where he had placed it. The handle was levitating over the edges of the sideboard. 

It was only a step and it bothered her more than it should. She placed the edge of her finger on the side of the handle and turned the mug on the spot until the handle was in the safety of the edges of the wood. 

All under the attentive eyes of Randall, who had followed the movement of her finger toward the cup and back to the side of her hip, watching her smirk at the cup and asking himself why he hadn’t noticed. Why had he placed the mug like this in the first place? Glancing away from the cup to Clara he knew he didn’t need to guess about it.


	4. 04_Wednesday’s and Coincidence's

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This chapter deals a bit with Randall's backstory with Lix. So as told, I will not leave the relationship out.  
> Also more encounter with Clara.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for the comments and the reads you've all made! You always can send me a message if you want to say something about the story you not want to leave in the comments. I have a tumblr. colepaldi-in-the-tardis. I really would love to interact with you people.  
> And I have noticed Freddy should be spelled Freddie. I will stick to the y-version. Sorry if this bothers anyone.

It was almost a twenty minute walk to the little restaurant by the corner he went two or three times a week to eat his lunch. The canteen at the University was no option for him. Way too many people, way too many possibilities to bump into familiar faces who would feel the need to talk to him, and it felt to complicated to tell them that he wanted to eat alone - they would leave him alone, yes, but they wouldn’t understand. He wanted to spare himself the looks, the irritation which people eyed him with.

 

So his first day, he had decided that he would find himself a little restaurant where he could eat in peace. Wandering around, he found this restaurant with a lot of wood and green, straight lines, nothing too extravagant, decent music in the background, and the food was good. They had some tables and a counter by the window where he always sat to eat.

 

The waitress was not a big talker herself, she was polite, and always gave him a honest short smile when he entered and told him about the special of the day. The clientele that ate lunch there was manageable, and he guessed they made their money in the afternoon.

 

He ate light - pasta with a huge salad, fish with rice or when he was in the mood and not that hungry a piece of the self made apple pie. A cup of tea and twenty minutes later, not talking to anyone except some short phrases about the food and the tip he gave to the waitress, he was on his way back. The rest of the week he ate what he brought from home or nothing except some cookies he always had in his drawer.

 

It was a Wednesday, when he came back from his lunch to his office, the mail he had picked up in his hand. He settled himself down in his chair, the pile of letters in front of him. He always needed a moment to prepare himself for the moment, for those special Wednesdays after lunch moments. Browsing through the letters till he found what he was looking for - the one letter he knew, was always there.

 

He took it and placed the rest of the pile neatly aside. The envelope was smaller than the usual and the paper felt rough under his fingertips. Handwritten address, the stamp always a bit askew - after a year it had stopped bothered him - but he always asked himself if this was done on purpose. Maybe it was meant as provocation, maybe a hidden invocation. He couldn’t say, he wouldn’t ask.

 

Taking the paper knife out of his drawer he opened the letter and started reading. One side, rarely two. A fine handwriting, but he could detect the slight haste in it. Always at the end of the word, when the pen slipped and didn’t left the paper completely when to write the next word. Old habits, he knew about from himself.

 

It always began with,

 

_“Dear Randall,”_

and always ended with “ _love_ ” and her name.

 

Every Wednesday. Since three years. He never answered back, except for Christmas and her birthday.

 

When he had finished it, he placed it back into the envelope, placing it into another drawer with the others from the last few weeks. After that he leaned back into his chair, taking of his glasses to rub his eyes. He had tried not to open the letters, but he was unable to do so, it had deprived him of his sleep. There was still control she had over him, not much, but enough that it angered him a bit every Wednesday again.

 

Five minutes later he had regained so far, that he was able to work again, but the rest of the day was always overlaid with the taste of regret, long lost feelings and way too many “what ifs”. He got used to it, at least that was what he told himself.

 

When the day was over, he packed his bag, took his coat from the hanger and shoved it over. It was around five in the afternoon and the floor was empty when he locked his office. He made sure the door was locked and made his way down the stairs, thinking about if he had to buy something on his way back home. He remembered the milk had been empty in the morning and he had to pick up one of his suits from the cleaners. When he hurried he could make it before they closed at six.

 

He was just about to approach the stairs on the fourth floor when a familiar voice stopped him in his tracks, “Mister Brown?”

 

It was Clara Oswald, locking her office with one hand and a big bag under her arm. Randall stopped on the second last step. “Miss Oswald, shouldn’t you be long home rehearsing your interview tomorrow?”

 

Walking up to him, placing the bag from under her arms onto the stone balustrade of the stairs to put away the key, she noticed that his tone was light but he seemed to worry, that she might was concerned about the next day. “I hold lectures in front of a hundred people sometimes, you really think I get nervous when I get questioned by just one?”

 

He had to look up to her, from where he stood, “To be honest, I can’t tell. You don’t look like it, but I don’t know you well enough to pass judgement on you,” a moment of possibilities arose between them.

Clara felt she should say something, it was the perfect situation, but was too stunned by the meaningful words he had delivered so casually and missed the moment.

“Can I help you, with your bag? Are there bricks in it?”

 

“It does look like bricks, doesn’t it?” she smirked and came around to walk with him down the stairs. “Thank you, I am fine. Just my markings I have to do.”

 

He kept silent while they walked down the stairs, unsure what to say, and a moment of silence fell over them.

 

“Odd, isn’t it?” she spoke up when they reached the first floor.

 

“I am not sure if I follow,” he opened one of the doors for her, and she gave him a short nod.

 

“It just occurred to me that I have worked here here for over a year, and I usually leave around the same time, but I have never seen you before.”

 

“It is a big place, what is odd about it?”

 

“Yes it is, but our offices are located in the same wing, and in calculations of coincidence there should have been a chance of seeing us before, but it obviously never happened.”

 

He stopped. Not only because there was another door he needed to open. A few seconds went by while he tried to understand her chain of thoughts, his hand on the door handle, fine lines building up on his forehead. “Miss Oswald, don’t take this the wrong way, but I never was that good at math and I can’t follow you,” he swung the door open for them.

 

“Are you always this impatient?” she crossed by, making clear with the tone in her voice that she was teasing him. “Or are you just impatient with _me_ , Mister Brown?”

 

Her straightforwardness made him stop walking once again, and she gave him a soft smile, it was answer enough for her.

 

He huffed and glared down to the ground while they kept walking toward the exit. He indeed had never met her or had seen her before and it dawned on him, what she had found so odd when meeting him a few minutes earlier. They had probably missed each other by minutes or only seconds every time they had left their offices. Then after a short meeting about her interview, they finally had met by accident. Like coincidence had finally found the right timing for them.

 

When they reached the outside a cold breeze hit them both in the face. Randall didn’t seem to mind, but Clara shuddered in disgust and hissed something about “freezing cold”.

 

“It’s not that cold, you know,” he watched her, grabbing her coat by the collar to cover the skin by her throat. “What are you going to do in December?”

 

“Probably freeze to death,” she buried her face till only the nose was seen behind her collar and eyed him warily. He didn’t even made the attempt to close his coat, nor did he seem to be cold in the slightest, while she only wanted to be at home and take a hot bath.

 

He saw her eyes roam over him, and he felt like he had turned yellow or something.

 

“What?” they both asked in unison.

 

It made them both stare down to the ground. Randall checked his watch, usually he would have been on his way home already. He wasn't used to such delay. Sometimes Freddy or the other students stopped him but only for questions about work. Now he stood there with a woman he had met a few days ago, who was sharing her philosophical thoughts about coincidence and was hiding under her coat because of a slight breeze.

 

“You need a scarf.”

 

“I need Winter in Lisbon and hot tea,” Clara whined, remembering that Lisbon was one of the 101 places to see in her book. The book in the box.

 

“No, … really, ... you need a scarf,” he ignored her whining and her cryptic utterance.

 

“I know,” she shoved her face a bit back out of her coat. “You are checking your watch again, it wasn’t my intent to hold you up. I’m sorry, you probably have to write some very important article. Like about the vanishing books in the library.”

 

“Vanishing books in the library?”

 

“Yes, that’s what my students tell me. There are books you never can lend out because they always gone. The staff say they are in use, and they putting everyone on a waiting list, but you never hear from them again. The students say; someone is stealing them from the library and so no one else can lend them out, and I thought if it is true, it could be a quite good story, little bit mysterious, don’t you think? … Well, sorry, I am babbling, keeps me warm. I’ll let you go,” she dropped her gaze, blushing about her rambling. Pressing the bag closer to herself, she gave him one last quick smile and then hurried down the stairs.

  
Left behind dumbfounded Randall didn’t know what to do with the situation. “Vanishing books?” he whispered, following her with his eyes. Who was this woman? Why did he even care about this question? His feet started walking without his consent, hurrying down the stairs, following her. For a person with such short high, she was quick, he thought. “Miss Oswald!”

 

‘Gosh, no,’ she thought. Now he would tell her that he was a serious journalist and not some kind of joke she did all the time, trying to impress him. What did she even think? The man was working for “The Hour” in London, the news program. A job you not advertise for - you get it offered and then you take it or you go home in regret for the next five years.

 

She whirled around, hoping she could take the wind out of his sails, “I am sorry, I didn’t mean it. I know you are a serious journalist and you don’t do stupid stories about missing books. You do “Watergate” and -”

 

How the hell could she talk so fast without breathing? “Miss Oswald… Clara!”

 

He felt indiscret and awkward for using her first name, without knowing her. They both knew, it was the only word in the world that had made her shut up, but for him, it closed a distance between them, he wasn’t sure he wanted to close. So he quickly rose one hand in defence, sorting out what to say, “Miss Oswald… don’t forget the interview tomorrow, and.. get a scarf! Please.”

 

Clara’s mouth hung slightly open, when she saw him turn around and walk toward some cars not far away from them. He didn’t turned around anymore, just walked to his car - an old Mercedes and drove off. She kept standing at the spot where he had left her, staring at him and his car till he was out of sight. Only when her arm started to hurt because of the weight of the bag and she saw her bus coming, did she shake herself out of her paralyzed state.

 

A half hour later she found herself at home, with hot tea on her work desk, trying to make her markings - but being unable to concentrate. It was her name, that distracted her, out of his mouth. It echoed in this low, rasp scottish tone of his, in her head. Over and over again.

  
  



	5. 05_Coffee

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> It's time for a coffee, isn't it?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Happy New Year everyone! Thanks for the read and the comments and the kudos!!

The next day, after a morning lecture, she went down to the studio where she would meet up with Freddy 15 minutes before they wanted to record the interview with her. 

 

When she entered the rooms, some people - mostly students - ran around, setting up everything, planning stuff, discussing stuff. When Clara walked by, they greeted her, some faces were familiar to her as they were in her course. 

 

She founds herself looking around and it is not entirely for Freddy, which made her feel childish. Why did she even care? She tried to tell her, that he is - as a teacher, the only familiar face she knows down here, and it would comfort her in some way, but that is of course a lame trick she wanted to play on herself. 

 

Randall Brown was nowhere to be seen and so she expected he had better things to do. There was no need to be down here for every interview she guessed, he had capable students - and much less, if the interview was as unimportant at the one she had to gave. 

 

_“Tell us about your strategy, like your ten point plan for the year, so the students get a feeling of what they have to expect from you and the course. You can tell us about your expectations of the students and if you have any specific rules, stuff like that,” Freddy had told her in the briefing. “I will ask some questions about the current finals and the gradings you and your colleagues gave last year. How many people succeeded and how many failed.”_

_“Why that?”_

_“So they know if you are a hard teacher or not,” he had smirked. “Don’t worry.”_

 

“Professor Oswald, great you are on time,” Freddy came across the room and shook her hand. “Are you ready?”

 

“Yes, yes, I think so,” her eyes still wandered around in hope to find him. Every second she is looking for him is making her more disappointed of the fact that he obviously will not be here for her interview. He was here for Nicola’s - and does that make her a little envious? Maybe he had simply more trust in her to not fuck things up, as she beautifully phrased it. Remembering of the moment, still makes her ears go red - nobody sees, thanks to her long hair. Or was he peeved by her encounter from the day before? She had made a fool out of herself - vanishing books - _‘what were you thinking, Clara?’ - ‘Clara!’_ still so vibrant in her head. 

 

They both sat in the interview zone and waited for the light setting and the camera. 

 

“You look nervous. You aren’t nervous, are you?”

 

She smiled at him, telling him only half the truth, “Maybe a bit, it looks different from this side.”

 

“I know, everybody says that. It is not live, so if you have to sneeze, we can cut it out,” he took a pen out of his notebook and placed it behind his ear, “Maybe.”

 

Clara cocks one eyebrow at him him, but it cleared the way for her to ask him about him without sounding obvious. 

 

“Mister Brown won’t be amused about this, will he?” 

 

A juvenile grin, “Mister Brown is never amused about anything, I’m afraid,” he stretched his back and checked the light with a short look.

 

“So,... he is a tough teacher?”

 

“Oh yes, he is, but he is the best! For some reason he quit his job in London by “The Hour” and came to Glasgow to teach us - this lot of wannabe journalists,” he shook his head. “Haven’t figured out yet why. Maybe never will, so I am just happy that he is my teacher. He is a bit…,” his hand whirled around in the air, in need for a good description.

 

“...quirky?” she suggested.

 

Laughing, “Yeah, that too.”

 

“Recording in twenty seconds!” a voice over the microphone and interrupted them. “Oh and Freddy, Mister Brown here wants to remind you politely to remove the flippin’ pen,” the voice went on and Clara’s head shot up by the mentioning of his name. If there was a moment she betrayed herself, she knew instantly it was this one. 

The light was dazzling her, so she had a hard time seeing him immediately. Only when her eyes adjusted to the glaring light source did she see him, standing behind the glass with hands in his pockets, looking toward them. 

 

“The flippin’ pen, Donna?” Freddy asked, feigning indignation. 

 

“My words,” she said. “Not his.” 

 

Clara was still looking over to him, unsure if she should raise a hand or send over a smile, but she wasn’t sure that he was really looking at her. The light made it impossible to see, only that Randall didn’t react to the little chat of his students and kept still, glancing over. 

 

“Ten seconds!”

 

With that she decided to better look away again, and to do nothing - it would be awkward now to greet him and she feared Freddy’s reaction. 

 

Then there was a short crack coming over the loudspeaker, “Miss Oswald,” she yanked her head again toward Randall’s voice, eyes wide open. “I just wanted to tell you, that our YouTube channel has a few thousand hits a week,” uncertain what he wanted to say her with this, Clara looked over to a grinning Freddy, who seemed to know what his teacher was up to. “No need to get nervous.” 

 

“Two, one.. and recording!”

 

 _‘Bastard!’_ she thought still looking into his direction. There was no chance he was smiling, but she could bet her left hand that he had his fun with the moment. 

 

“Professor Oswald?” Freddy started and she gave Randall a last glare, then slapped on her best smile and turned to him. “Tell me about English Literature.”

 

And so the interview started. They talked around fifteen minutes, and Freddy asked her all the questions they had talked about before. At the end he went a bit off protocol, when he asked her about her opinion on the school system in England compared to other countries, and the tuition fees the university charged. 

 

Clara couldn’t read in his face if he did that with everyone, or if he had just decided to tease her. 

 

“Well, good education costs money,” she said and knew it was not a good answer, shifting on her seat slightly.

 

“So, Professor Oswald, you’re saying it’s okay that only people with money can afford knowledge and education?”

 

“No, of course not, that was not what I meant to say.”

 

“What did you mean then?”

 

“That teachers and schools cost money and that it is sometimes necessary to charge money to make education available,” she felt under pressure, but not uneasy. “And there are sponsored scholarships, but I admit to you that our school system might not be 100% correct,” knowing this couldn’t stand alone, she quickly added, “but, Mister Lyon, it is nice to ask _me_ this, but you might want to consider asking someone else this question, too.”

 

“And who would that someone else be, Professor Oswald?”

 

She leaned slightly in, “Our government, Mister Lyon - would be a start, don’t you think so?” 

 

Freddy gave her an appreciating look, “I might do that, Professor.” 

 

Clara can see he wanted to go on with the topic, but he restrained himself - it’s not the topic of the moment. “Thank you for you opinion, Professor Oswald,” he nodded to her and then turned to the camera. “Next time; Professor Jack Harkness about physical education and we have the math department around!”

 

The main light went off, and the man handling the camera told them, that they are finished. 

 

Clara looked over to Freddy and he gave her a knowing smile, while standing up and reaching out to shake her hand, “I should say sorry, but you surely have heard about journalists.”

 

“Have I?” she let him knew, with her mimic, she wasn’t angry. 

 

“They are all suckers!” he wavered and adds than; “I should have warned you.”

 

“I think Professor Oswald is perfectly capable of handling a bit of the unexpected from time to time,” suddenly Randall appeared by the camera, pausing for a moment and then heads his attention toward Freddy. “Good work Mister Lyon, but next time don’t switch topics. You go for one or the other, except it is discussed, or it is live and you have to lure your interview partner because of reasons.”

 

“Yes, Mister Brown,” he turned back to Clara. “The video will be online after the weekend. Thank you and goodbye.”

 

Now, that they were alone, Clara expected some kind of critic about her interview from him, but he seemed not to speak up.

 

“So…?” she spoke up after long seconds of silence. 

 

“So what?”

 

“That’s it? Or?” Clara found herself hunting for something else to say, something else to ask only to play out time, to share another moment with him. What was hard, because he wasn’t helping in any way. Just looked at her, as if he waited that she would walk away, leave him alone - on the other side he didn’t sent her away. Clara always had a quick tongue, though she was uncertain about him; that was what kept her quiet. 

 

“That’s it,” he said dryly. 

 

She glanced toward the clock behind him, “Well, then, I have a lecture in 30 minutes and still have some things to do before that.”

 

A jolt went through him, and he stepped aside, so the way to the door was free, “Of course.”

 

Her tongue made a clicking sound when he said it and it made him look up in surprise. For a second, she thought he would finally say something more, so she tarried on the spot. When he didn’t speak up, she gave him a smile - hoping it didn’t look obviously disappointed - and walked past him. 

 

She didn’t think anything about him, yet. What could she? She only knew him for like, ..what? 15 minutes in total? What did she know about him? A ghost, Scottish, who doesn’t like laughing and wears way too attractive suits he obviously got from his grandfather. No, she knew nothing - that was not the question. The question she had asked herself, after coming home the day before, with the sound of her name in her head was: _why did she want to know more about him?_

Randall followed her with his eyes till she had vanished behind the corner. Sighing he pressed his lips hard together, biting the flesh inside his mouth in discontent. 

 

He had liked how she had reacted to Freddy’s questions at the end. He knew his student, and he knew that he would go for it, he had Randall’s silent blessing for it, even though he told the young man afterwards that there were better reasons to do interviews like this. That was the progress of learning, that and because he wanted to see her reaction.  

 

“Damn,” he whispered to himself and stepped forward, and luckily his feet knew what to do and didn’t listen to his head, and so he found himself behind her, by the lift. 

 

“I was wondering…” she hadn’t heard him follow her, so she made a slight jump when turning around in surprise. 

 

Seeing her furrowing her brows at him made him wave a hand to plea for silent forgiveness before he raised it toward his throat, “If you finally managed to get a scarf?”

 

His soft and innocent expression softened the little shock of his unforeseen appearance. 

When she had arrived by the elevator, she was still in an inner monologue about her being too precarious about the man, and him being too pedestrian in his understanding that she might not, was as ridiculous as she gave herself around him - that always happened when she _really_ cared what a person thought about her. 

 

When she didn’t care she could be flippant, straight forward, and could say a sentence without sounding utterly weird. That her ability failed to do it around him, told her everything she not wanted to believe right now. That she was interested in a man, who - at least superficially - wasn’t interested in her. 

 

 _‘And yet,’_ Clara thought. _‘He has followed me.’_ “No, not yet, I.. I have one, at least I think.. in one of my boxes with my winter clothes.”

 

“Good,” he managed to say. “Winter can get rough here in Scotland.” 

 

He never showed when he was battling with his inner self, he had learned to hide his insecurities and his doubts behind a straight face, behind a fiddle with his glasses or his tie or simply a acknowledging hum, which - so he realized by the reaction of people - made him look mysterious and untouchable. 

 

People noticed his little habits, his need for straight lines, order and his cryptic messages when he started to talk about Freud or monsters under the bed. They noticed, but the thick wall he had build around him and his utter brilliance at his job - and yes, he damn well knew he was good at it - stopped them from asking questions, stopped them from taking more interest than they needed. Unfortunately it made him stop from interacting with people beyond the reasons of work. It ever had been difficult, even when he still was an alcoholic - but it had helped. 

 

 _‘You were a fantastic drunk.’_ it echoed from the depth of his conscious and he pushed it aside.

 

He had given up, mostly on the people than on him. Being alone was what was left and he had came to terms with the situation. 

 

Till Clara had showed up in his office and had taken interest in his books. She was not the first, people tend to look around when they are waiting, but she actually had the urge to touch them. Little details he never forgot. When he had smiled at her at the end of the interview - after the hint with the towel - he knew he was interested. And it made him apprehensive, because he was a useless man when it came to women. 

 

“There is no use in getting a cold,” he heard himself say.

 

The door of the elevator opened and Clara looked up at him in hope he would give her a little hint of what to do, but when his name got called from the studio, she knew he wouldn’t. She stepped inside and waited for the doors to close. 

 

It was in the last second before the doors went completely shut that she decided to scratch some courage together - even in fear of a ‘no’ - and shoved her hand between the doors so they came to an jolting halt before sliding open again. Randall had already turned around, glancing over his shoulders when he heard the lift making strange noises. 

 

“Coffee?” she blurted, not leaving the elevator. “How about a cup of coffee some day?” 

 

Randall stared so long at her that the doors were already about too close again, and Clara had to press her hand against it to prevent it from doing so. “In case you are psychic or something and trying to place your answer in my head by mind reading or something.. that doesn’t work, so I would appreciate if you would simply use your mouth and words, before this elevator door tries to eat me up!”

 

Her babble made him almost laugh again, “Yes.”

 

“Yes?”

 

“I would like to do that… some day.” 

 

“Alright, great,” then the door went shut, and Clara tried to press the open button, but it was too late.

 

Randall had stepped up to the door, pressing the button from outside, but the doors remained closed, and he had to give up his idea to follow her over the staircase when his name was called again.

 

Coffee it was. Some day. 

 

 

 

 

 

 


	6. 06_Wandering thoughts

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Just some insight in Clara's and Randall's weekend times. Bit of a character study.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for reading and reviewing! I usually update this fic each Wednesday, because some have asked. I am still a few chapters ahead, but I was lazy over the weekends, but till now, you will have for sure another chapter next week!  
> And of course, Happy New Year to everyone!  
> Thanks to fetchingsort on tumblr for the beta!

The weekend went by in a blur for her. On Saturday, Clara woke up around seven and as usual she asked herself, why she wasn’t able to sleep in. She had gone to bed around midnight, after watching some crime movie. As usual on her weekends. The only real suspense she felt she had in her life from time to time.

She rolled around a few times between her bedspreads, trying to doze off for another bit, but her head was like a restless engine. Once started, it was impossible for her to find anymore rest. The thoughts lashed into her brain like a heavy storm.

So many things to do, so many worries to care about. She had to prepare next week's lectures and had still to do some markings she had promised to finish by Monday. Besides that, she fought with herself if she should go out in the evening or not. Danny had asked her if she wanted to come with Adorable Coop and him to a nice bar they had discovered. He even had suggested to bring a friend - his way of asking her if it was okay for her to hook her up with someone. She had declined that offer, but told him she would think about coming with them to the bar. Being the fifth wheel was not a thing to aspire, but at least she would come out of her cave, see some other human beings, and Danny and Sissy seemed always to enjoy her company.

Speaking of the devil, her phone buzzed with a short message from Danny, writing her the address and the time they would be there. And if she was sure he shouldn’t invite another person. She confirmed her intentions to come by, but still declined his offer for a blind date.

‘Alright. See you tonight. Keep yourself warm, it is freezing cold outside!’ he texted back, and Clara shot up in her bed and longed for her throat.

“A scarf!”

\---

When it was the weekend, Randall slept till seven o’clock and then he woke up by himself. He had stopped questioning twenty years ago why he never could sleep longer. It was probably in his veins, and based on his steady, almost never changing rites.

During the week, he worked till five, sometimes longer; the duties were comprehensive, not as thrilling as back in the old days, but he was out of the age he longed for suspense and thrilling journalism. He liked being some kind of teacher, passing his knowledge on, and with students like Freddy - who seeked the thrill - he knew from time to time that there would be a fuss about something. Like the professor and the harassment. It was good work and a good story but it was nothing he needed every day.

As he got older, he found more and more satisfaction in a regulated work day, things he could control. Maybe that made his life boring, maybe it made it ordinary and maybe it was just what happened when one gets older. Randall felt no real need to think about it, because it would make him nervous and he would start to rearrange his books again.

After he had taken a shower, he got dressed in a jumper and put on his coat to go down to the next newsstand to buy some newspapers. It had gotten colder and he had put up the collar of his coat, remembering himself to get his scarf out of his cupboard.

 _‘Scarf,’_ he thought and found himself staring at a woman in front of him, brown hair, but taller as Clara and then he trailed off, back to the moment by the elevator and her offer for coffee. Her question had made him almost malfunction, so long it was that someone - a woman - had asked him out for a coffee. Not that he was sure, she had asked him out, maybe she just wanted to share some coffee in the canteen with him to talk. About what? What was there to talk about? He would leave the decision to her, it was her idea.

Yes, he was so rubbish at that. He shook his head to clear his mind. When did he became so incredulous?

“Sir?” the man behind the counter asked, after he didn’t react when it was his turn.

Sighing, he gave a apologizing short smile, and placed the money on the counter. When? He probably always was.

\----

She had to admit, she had not really wanted to go, but she had promised and she couldn’t stay at home every weekend, wasting time with tea, telly and the internet. She had to leave the house from time to time for something else than work, to raise the chance of having a social life and to go against the possibility of ending like an old spinster. She put absolutely no effort into picking a nice dress, she just grabbed what came along. There were no plans of meeting prince charming anyway, only drinks with Danny and Sissy.

She arrived shortly after eight at the bar Danny had mentioned. It was still chilly outside, but at least the wind had calmed down a bit. They met up by a bar table in the middle of the room. They hugged each other and exchanged quick pleasantries. Danny was very happy that Clara had decided to come and Sissy smiled so bright at her the whole room could shine for a week.

The two of them always radiated such joy and warmth, that the stress of the week and the pressure to mingle around with people and to have a social life dropped off of Clara - at least a bit.

Danny asked her what she wanted to drink and Clara went for her usual, an Amaretto Orange. Mostly because she liked Amaretto and all the other options she had were cocktails with lousy names and she hated to order an “Orgasms” or an “Sex on the Beach”. She never could deliver the names without giggling - in case she was already a bit drunk, or blushing - in case she was still sober. One day she just decided she would stay with one cocktail and luckily she liked the taste. It was simple and didn’t have an embarrassing name.

“So how are you? How was your week?” Sissy asked her.

Clara shrugged, “The usual. The new students terrorising me with annoying questions and the masters are sweating blood and water in fright of hard finals, which makes me feel bad,” she sipped from her cocktail and added, “and I had this department interview with the GUST team.”

“Oh really? Already?” Danny called out. “So how did it go? Our department comes up in two weeks I think.”

“I think I did okay,” Clara explained. She talked about Freddy and that she got a good pre-briefing. She joked that they thought about sending Glen, but Nicola was totally against it because she was afraid everybody would fall asleep while watching it. “I never was down in the basement since I work here. I never had something to do with them, you?”

“No, not really, I have some GUST students, and from time to time I check the YouTube channel,” Danny admitted.

“It’s a good team,” Sissy said. “They do good work for the school. Good PR and since they have the new head of department Mister Brown, they have extended their radius. The Headmasters are very pleased with his work from what I hear.”

Clara’s head shot up a little by the mentioning of his name and she drifted back to her encounter with Randall and her asking him out for coffee.

“Do you know him well?” she asked and hoped immediately she didn’t sounded suspicious. Danny gave her a side look, so she added, “I think I met him.”

“Nah, not really,” she leaned against Danny, thinking about some notable encounter with the man. “From time to time he comes to our office. He is always very polite, but he never says much.”

“The Caledonian ghost,” Danny flicked with his fingers. “Isn’t that him?”

“That isn’t really a nice name, Danny,” Clara reminded him. Feeling now some sort of responsibility to defend Randall even she didn’t know him very well.

“I didn’t give him the name,” he said. “I think I saw him a few times in the corridors. He always wears this three part suits, right? Tall, grey, slicked back hair - grumpy face.”

“Yeah, could be him,” she managed to say and with that the talk went somewhere else.

She stayed for a while, maybe two hours, mostly listening to the pair in front of her. Her nods were almost automatic and so were her answers. Her mind was occupied, drifting away from the now to Randall Brown.

It was strange, she still felt the metal door of the elevator bumping against her arm, when she had waited for an answer from him, but she couldn’t remember the sound the machine had made, what appeared strange to her for a second. Nevertheless she still heard the tone of his voice in her ears, when he had talked to her over the microphone _“No need to get nervous”_ and the concern in his voice when he had asked about her scarf.

Clara was no use at this evening and Danny sensed it, asking her if everything was okay. “You seemed a bit far away, sometimes.”

“Sorry, I am just… tired,” luckily this wasn’t even a lie. “Also the weather, I don’t like it when it gets cold. I am sorry that I was a ‘stuffy conversation’.”

“No, it’s okay,” Danny rubbed her arm gently. “I was just worried. You sure everything is okay? You know you can talk to me.”

She patted his hand on her arm, “I know, Danny,” she leaned toward him and gave him a quick kiss on the cheek. “Thanks. You two have a great night! Take care, yeah.”

And then she took a cab home, finding herself an hour later on the couch, snuggled into a huge blanket, music on and a cup of tea in front of her.

Now this had become of her, she thought. A young woman favouring the warmth of her apartment more than a night out with friends and the chance to meet a nice man. She thought about that for a moment and knew it was a lie, all the serious relationships she had, she never had met on a night out. So whatever, maybe it was just a phase, and right now she had no big interest in a boyfriend.

She liked watching Danny and Sissy, but she couldn’t place herself in the same situation. Exchanging lovingly looks, snickering and she guessed he brought her roses at least once a week. That maybe it was the reason, why it didn’t work out with her and Danny. Clara didn’t need roses and walking around in the streets holding hands and being tickled on the sofa - surely it was nice, but not her thing.

When she was really honest to herself, she only wanted someone to lean on, to explore the world with, someone who could accept when she was not in the mood to go to the cinema or just wanted to spent the Saturday evening at home with some distracting movie and a huge bowl of chips. Snuggled into a blanket, falling asleep on the couch. There was really no need for buoyant board game parties with two other couples and there was absolutely no need for coffee and tea over at the possible in-laws.

Yeah, she would definitely end up a spinster, she huffed into the pillow and rolled over to the side, dozing off.

\-------

Randall spent his Saturday reading the newspapers and flicking through some tv channels to see what kind of rubbish the world was producing. Old newsman habits. He found himself regularly musing why there was no channel for good news, only for the bad and he knew that only bad news made good money and he despised his craftsmanship over this sometimes. Freddy had told him there was a side in the internet, that only showed good news to their visitors.

“Good idea,” he had told him. “Love it almost, but the sad part is the people give nothing about good news, they actually give nothing about bad news either. They just sit in front of their telly because the media has trained them that it was a waste of time to read books and ask questions. Life was only worth living when you are willing to waste it in front of the magic google-box. That’s what television is about. As long as there is no massacre in their living room, who will ever really care about one in a foreign country?”

“You worked for “The Hour”, it was your aspiration to make people think, wasn’t it? That is why news broadcasts like “The Hour” exist, to reach out to people, to make them think, to make them question things.”

 _‘Poor Freddy,’_ Randall had thought, but had admired him for his verve. One he had lost years ago. There was still fire in him for good news, for questioning the doubtless. “It was and it is, Freddy. But you know at what time they air good news broadcasts? After ten. And you know what they air afterwards? Sitcoms. The dying in middle east forgotten by the first laugh.”

Reality and life experience had ripped Randall’s believe in the world out of his head years ago. The media had changed to what it was 30 years ago, when he had started as a journalist. Or it was just time that had changed him.

After reading the newspapers he cared about his household and laid out the suits that he needed to bring to the cleaners. After making a list what grocery he needed, he spent the afternoon running errands and taking care of what he would cook for dinner.

He enjoyed cooking, and owned a collection of cookbooks from where he extracted his ideas for dinner. While he followed down the recipe he chose, he actually relaxed, and his mind was able to unwind from the busy days at work and also from the Wednesday letters he received regular as a clockwork. It was almost ridiculous how figuring out how many grams of butter he needed made the muscles in his back relax and made him care less about the spilled flour on the counter. There was fun and he experienced something new and usually he had a fine meal afterwards. What else someone could want to achieve on a quiet Saturday afternoon?

Sometimes he brought some work home, sometimes he just lay on the couch and enjoyed a good book. If he was not in the mood for reading he listened to music or decided for some old film - in case one was on telly.

At this Saturday, he put a vinyl on the record player - some jazz - and layed down on the couch to dwell on his thoughts. Usually he craved in this moment more than ever a cigarette. One of his old habits was to smoke while taking a wander with his thoughts, but he had quit years ago after his doctor had suggested it to him, and after he found himself breathing heavy after taking the stairs. He quit from one day to the other - like he had done with the alcohol - he had started to eat better and to take some exercise in using stairs and longer walks and after a half year he really felt better. But his old habits were burned deep inside of him and so it didn’t surprise him, that even after years he sometimes wanted to buy cigarettes or alcohol. The alcohol wasn’t the big problem, he was able to distant himself from it. The only thing he missed was from time to time a good sip of Scotch. Well, from time to time he stilled the need with Jammie Dodgers and it was fine for him.

_‘Are you just impatient with me, Mister Brown?’_

Out of nowhere he heard her say it again, and it made him smile, while he nibbled at the edge of the cookie.

She could be witty when she wasn’t to distracted, he thought. Also she could sound very original when talking about vanishing books. It made him even more smile.

Something was with her that had aroused his interest and for some unknown reason it seemed she had found him interesting enough to ask him if he would like to drink coffee with her. He tried not to be too excited about it, he knew in the end he only would be disappointed and he wanted to spare him this experience.

Randall shouldn’t allow himself to do it, but he spent the next hour thinking about her, about the interview she gave and that he had liked how she had reacted, that he had found it very clever of her. When he started to remember the picture of her in front of the university, cold and her nose buried under her coat, he knew he needed to stop. Stop finding her interesting, stop finding her intelligent and even more to stop finding her beautiful.

“No!” he ordered himself, and brought the record player to an halt. “Just stop now.”

Maybe some work would help distract him from her. Sometimes there were too many uncertainties in Randall’s life.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry, this was not my best chapter. I only had 600 words and battled with me to write more. So that's why there is not much happening, but you have been warned about the slow burn ;). See you hopefully all next week!


	7. 07_Science of Deduction

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Our two protagonists make their observations about each other - over coffee.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is a longer chapter. I wanted to split it, but that would have spoiled everything. The next one will be a bit shorter.  
> Thanks for reviews and kudos!! And thanks to my beta fetchingsort on tumblr.

On Monday afternoon, she finally found some time to check for her interview on her laptop in her office.

It was an almost 10 minute interview, she watched full screen with an eye of a critic. She didn’t look bad, her hair looked actually very nice and the light fell smooth around her face, and didn’t made it more round than it was already.

She noticed, that everytime she had moved a bit too agitated or had touched her nose - she could remember that she had done that - they did made a cut over to Freddy.

When she saw the index come to an end, she furrowed her brow - with 30 seconds left, there was no more time for the question Freddy had asked her at the end. And she is right, the interview stops the moment before he had asked her about the fees and her ideas for a better school policy.

She was glad they had cut out the last part, though she asked herself if her answer was not good enough, and they had found she had made a bad impression. What ever it was, it was maybe better that way.

The rest of the interview was good for the department and good for her. They had edited it fine and the light setting was flattering to her face too.

With a little more time at hand, she found herself clicking through the channel of the school for any useful material she should know. She knew she only did it because she had felt bad after she had to admit that she rarely watched the videos and she was curious if she would find a video about the PR department.

After clicking at least ten minutes, she lost her restraint and typed Randall Brown’s name into the search bar. With no result. She shut the laptop down, before she would dare to click over to Google and try it there again. Clara was tempted, but pulled herself together; it was not her style to Google the man she wanted to have a coffee with.

That reminded her that she hadn’t seen him since their encounter by the elevator and asked herself if he would come back to her about her offer, or if she should come back to him, or if they should wait for the coincidence. The last possibility was nothing she wanted as it had taken them one year to even meet. So it was on her to come back to him because she saw that he wasn’t that kind of man who acted fast when it came to a date - was drinking coffee a date? And in the end it was her idea

Clara glanced over to the clock. It was four o’clock, a bit too late for coffee now and she wasn’t ready yet to go upstairs to him and ask him if he would like to join her. So she postponed her idea for the next day. In the morning, she would get two coffees, and then she would go to him.

“Good plan,” she nodded. “ _Maybe_ \- No, Clara, it is a good plan - _Really_? - Of course it is. It’s just coffee - _Is it?_ \- Yes of course it is! - _Well …_ \- What? It is just coffee, so shut up!”

Her head landed on the wood of her desk. How had that happened?

\----

In the morning at twenty minutes after eight she found herself in front of his door. Two cups of coffee in her hand, both black. Milk and sugar in the pocket of her coat.

It was one of the hardest decisions she had made for a Tuesday morning. The guy behind her in the queue was almost about to bark at her because she couldn’t decide what kind of coffee to buy Randall. The only thing she was sure about was that he definitely was no cappuccino type. Men somehow never are. In the end she thought, black coffee was never a bad decision.

Her eyes fixed on the silver letters, she felt her heart beat go faster as longer as she stood there, still unsure if this was right. Maybe he had business to do, maybe he wasn’t even there, maybe...just maybe.

At last she knocked with the tip of her boot against the door, because her hands were occupied and then she waited, swaying around on her heels back and forth. It felt like forever before she heard him inviting her in, which made her realize that she couldn’t pull down the door handle. Why didn’t she get a cup holder?

“I can’t!” she leaned a bit forward, so he hopefully was able to hear her. “Mister Brown?”

Clara was about to knock again when the door opened and Randall looked at her with wide open eyes. If he was in shock about her presence, he made no attempt to hide it, or maybe he always looked like this, Clara thought.

A couple of seconds he simply stared at her, then his eyes traveled down to her hands, to the coffee cups and then back to her face. He blinked rapidly and all of a sudden his lips had become dry, so he licked quickly over them, “Miss Oswald.”

“Coffee,” she only said and held both the cups toward him. “I decided, without asking, that some day, maybe today, and so I bought coffee. But it occurred to me, that you might be busy right now.”

Always the babbling, always the nervousness. He was relieved, without showing it. Hadn’t he thought about the coffee invitation all weekend long and was thinking about going to her office the day before this, only to find him occupied with his students and a failing camera. He was glad, she had taken the next step, because he knew him best. He probably would have come to her door, and would have left again in fright she was busy.

Exactly like she was thinking of him right now, “No, I am not,” he stepped aside to let her in and Clara made her way into the room, standing in the middle of it to wait till he had closed the door, and offered her a seat on his sofa with a gesture.

“I wasn’t sure if you like sugar or milk, I have some in my pocket,” she finally gave one of the mugs to him and he took it from her, slightly brushing her hands with his.

“Thank you,” he watched her sit down on his sofa and reach for her coat to get out some sugar and milk, while she had placed her cup down to the floor.

He turned around and brought the chair in front of his desk a little bit closer to her, and sat down, finding her hand holding out the ingredients. He took two sugars and one milk from her and added it into his coffee.

“You really have time?” Clara gazed up to him, after she had taken care of her beverage. “You don’t have to be polite. I am sure you have a lot to do, like watching over Freddy not asking the headmasters about their incomes or-”

“-you tend to talk a lot when you are nervous, aren't you?” he sipped from his coffee, to hide his reddening cheeks in the consequence of his daring observation.

It didn’t slip his attention that Clara blushed almost violently and he felt bad for his words. “I didn’t mean to…,” he looked away, touching his tie with two of his fingers. Without a warning, at least ten questions crossed his mind about her why and wherefores of her visit. After a moment, he lowered his chin and looked at her over the edges of his glasses. “What a pleasant surprise.”

It made her smile and he was relieved.

“Oh, before I forget,” Clara placed the mug once again aside and grabbed for her bag. “I brought something else.” She pulled out a package of “Jammie Dodgers” and held it almost proud in front of her. “Sources told me you like Jammie Dodgers.”

Randall had to shook his head slightly - that was really a surprise. Quickly he went through all possible persons who could have told her about his passion for the biscuit in his head. There was none. No one knew about it. He only ate them at home or in his office and usually not in front of others. “How do you know that?” he asked slowly.

Clara gave him a grin, she could clearly see that she had baffled him with her small present. It gave her the confidence she had thought she had lost in front of the door. “I could tell you, but then.. I have to kill you.”

Randall kept a straight face, only shifting his head a bit, cocking an eyebrow at her. Then he took his glasses off, still occupied in his mind how she knew about the cookies. At last he placed the frame back onto his nose, eyeing her suspiciously.

“That was.. a joke,” pressing her lips together in embarrassment, after she had observed his rigid reaction. “English literature.”

“English literature? Is the reason you know why I like Jammie Dodgers?” he leaned back into his chair, curious how she would explain it to him.

“Science of deduction.”

He needed to close his eyes for a moment to place her remark, and when it dawned to him, he - for the first time in her presence - he had to laugh about it. A chuckle. “Well, Miss Holmes… obviously I see, but I do not observe, so,” he wielded his hand in a wide gesture into the space between them, “delight me with your deliberations.”

“When I first visited your office, your paper bin stood outside. With an empty package of Jammie Dodgers,” she brushed her hand through her hair, then waving dismissively. “So… piece of cake!”

He needed to press his lips hard together to not smile to wide about her little show. “So are you going to open them, or not?”

She quickly opened the plastic and held it out to him, “Here you go.”

They shared a few moments, everybody chewing on their biscuit, sipping from the coffee. For the first time she didn’t feel the need to say something. To fill the air between them with an exchange of banalities between two grown-ups because society had taught her that keeping quiet was impolite. In this moment, when he dipped his cookie down into the hot steaming coffee and watched the liquid ripple around the small crumbs floating in his drink, she understood that he was not a quiet type of man - he was talking all the time, he just didn’t use words for communication.

There were his hands, always in motion, always fiddling with something - at this moment, with the bottom edge of his paper cup, trailing his little finger over the rough edge. There were his eyebrows; he sometimes seemed to have no control over them, as if they had their own will and Clara was sure that when he was younger he might had felt ridiculous with them, but with age comes wisdom and knowledge of body language.

There were his greenish eyes, his gaze, the power of it, that should be held back by the thick frame of his glasses but it didn’t, they made it even more impossible to look away. 

Randall broke the silence, “Are you deducing again?” He had watched her eyes wander over him.

This time she didn’t blush, instead she gave him a coy smile that conceded her guilty. “Do _you_?”

“Making deductions about you?” he held out another of the Jammie Dodgers to her. “Yes, I do.”

“Will you share your deliberations about me - with me?” she couldn’t deny that she was eager to find out what he thought about her.

“No.”

Clara swallowed, unsure what to say.

“I haven’t finished my observations yet,” he added more softly. “I tend to take my time.”

“It isn’t the worst habit,” she stood up, felt she needed to move, and felt the urge to make more observations by herself about him.

She eyed him, figuring out if he would let her. His eyes followed her up and didn’t leave her while she slowly strode to the shelf with his books, not objecting but his gaze was the one of an awaiting animal, unsure about her final intentions and ready to jump to stop her. “So you have experience with bad habits?”

She hid her smile behind her long hair she brought forward with a short bow of her head, “Maybe.”

Slowly reading the back of the books in the shelf, she made her way deliberately toward his desk - she still hadn’t seen what picture was in the frame on his workplace and in the moment she had entered the room with the coffee, the silver frame had caught her eye and had spurred on her curiousity.

“Curiosity maybe?” he asked not without a hint of hunch of her intentions.

Almost by his desk, she turned around with a bit of a frown on her face, “You as a journalist, it surprises me you consider this as a bad habit.” She stays where she is, understanding that he might not want her to sneak around in his office.

“I didn’t say so.”

“You suggested it.”

He stood up, walking behind his desk, placing the now empty cup on the sill. “Curiosity is a dangerous habit, Miss Oswald. It can ease the pain someone feels when left in the dark but it also can inflict misery when someone discovers things that weren’t meant to be revealed without an explanation.”

His eyes flickered toward the picture, then he picked it up and held it out to her, with the picture side down. Clara knew exactly what he did there.

“Maybe I shouldn’t…,” still she reached out for it almost holding it on her own.

Slowly he took his hand away, and when he is sure she had it, he retreated from her by taking a step back.

“Why are you doing this?” she asked, conflicted if it is wise to look at the picture or not.

“I am doing nothing, Miss Oswald, I just give you a choice.”

Impatience it was, she felt for the first time since a long while and obviously tested. “I think you are testing my character, Mister Brown,” she said more harsh than she wanted to. “And that feels, in this stage of getting to know you, not very good.”

“Does it? What do you want me to do? It was you, Miss Oswald, who sneaked up toward my desk in apparent intention to look at the picture. So now, do go on!” he pointed out with his hand.

She paused, pursing her lips, she is impatient with the turn of the events and she knew, she couldn’t even blame him for it, nevertheless, “Fine,” she holds out the picture again, still turned around. “I’ll spare myself the disappointment of seeing you with your wife on it.” Randall had no intention of taking the picture from her, so after counting to seven she placed it onto his desk. “It was a misunderstanding.”

“What was a misunderstanding?” he pressed further.

“Me asking you out for coffee,” she huffed. “And you for accepting it.”

“Turn the picture around, Miss Oswald,” there is a finality in his words, that told her, he will not discuss this further as long she hasn’t looked at the picture.

 _‘What the hell,’_ she thought, shook her head, and then grumbled a bit, before she grabbed for the picture.

The photography wasn’t what she had expected. No Randall, and no partner - he didn’t wear a ring in the end. It is a black and white photography of a baby girl, maybe two years old.

Clara needed time to proceed the new situation, of what was the picture about, and would it be a good or a bad story in the end. She wasn’t sure if she wanted to hear the story right now - but there wouldn’t come another moment if she declined.

“Your granddaughter,” she stated, and the machine in her head already analysed strings of possibilities.

Randall gave her some seconds to spin theories, he knew, which became worthless the moment he answered her, “Daughter.”

“Oh.”

It is just one syllable, a result of a chain of thoughts she had made in only a few seconds. Randall knew how to read this “oh”, he was able to dissect it. Her quick glance into his face, than to his hand. A quick reconsideration of his age, and a missing wedding ring. The confusion, the irritation resulted in that “oh”.

“It’s an old picture,” he stated.

Clara inhaled, realizing the control in the room has slipped her. On one hand she felt rude, and that he had looked through her. Years of training as a journalist, he was able to perceive things like confusion or the attempt of a lie. “I didn’t mean to-”

“-you did mean.”

Suddenly the room was filled with coldness. It made her more angry than sad, because on the other hand he was the one having the control, he was the one crashing the moment with something like a iffy game. There was no reason in doing so. Now everything was different from what she had planned. She was disappointed and angry and so was he. His face spoke volumes to her and she assumed that the chance of coming closer to him was gone for today - maybe forever, but that was not the moment to think about it now.

Placing the picture finally down onto the table, she retreated from him, around the table and walked to the sofa, taking her coat up, “I have a lecture in half an hour,” she said, cross, but still found the hope to add, ”I might see you ... tomorrow.” 

She gave the picture a last glance, and cursed her curiosity - now knowing that there is a deeper story behind the picture, then she walked to the door.

Randall placed the picture back to the exact place, where it had been before. Clara was cross with him, more than he was with her. That it was his fault, above all, he knew. He had his reasons, but now it seemed there was no use in his little testing. She was about to slip out of his life as quickly as she had entered it.

“Clara!” he called, making long strides into the middle of the room.

The “R” in her name resonated through the room and made her stop in her tracks immediately, though she didn’t turn around.

“Clara,” his fingers fiddled with one of his cufflinks, “do you really have a lecture in 30 minutes?”

Turning around, “I have one in 45, so it is actually not a lie,” she snapped in defence, as if he would now call her out on every word she would say.

“Can I see you tomorrow?” he asked and she wanted to say yes, and at the same time she wanted to tell him, he could go somewhere else to play his little games.

“And why would I want to do that?”

“Because I am sorry, and obviously I am rubbish with women, and …,” he hoped she would let him off the hook, what she of course didn’t.

She crossed her arms, “And?” still angry with him, heated up, but her expression had softened.

His eyes fell down to the floor by her feet, “And I guess I was testing you.” Nibbling on his lower lip, he knew she had all the right to let go off him now.

“What for?”

It is an palpable silence that the question triggered. Randall hadn’t planned his testing through. In a split second, with two simple words, Clara had ripped the control out of his hands and had set him under pressure. If he won’t answer her, she will turn on her heels and leave. If he won’t give her an satisfying answer, she will shake her head at him and leave. As a matter of fact, he had pushed himself into a corner, and he could only come out of it by being honest with her. That would mean he had to open up.

Clara saw his inner dispute, saw that he gauged over his possibilities and that she was now back in charge. Not that she wanted it, it was no intention of hers to make him feel bad, but Clara found she had the right to know his reasons. There was a deeper meaning and it wasn’t because he was awkward with people on a personal level. So she gave him the time he obviously needed - already she cared maybe a bit too much about him in this state of knowing each other. 

He stepped past her, toward a locker, taking a deep breath, “So many people say so many things,” he opened the cabinet, inside of the door is a mirror, “and none of it matters.” Glancing at her for a moment, he pulled out his tie and undid it. “None of it means anything. Platitudes. Fake smiles,” his hands do the job quickly, he wouldn’t need a mirror, but it’s his safety net for whatever reason. “I know they call me _‘the Caledonian ghost’,_ Clara - for reasons,” he raised his head again, when he had finished his tie and Clara could see not sadness in his eyes, but disappointment. With him? With her? With the world? It was too early in this stage to know for sure. “You were the first person since I came to work here, who walked through this door with pure friendly intentions of wanting to know me. And it scared me so much that I needed to test you for it. I am a journalist, I know how to make deductions too.”

It’s not exactly a proper apology, but it’s exactly what he not wanted to do. Giving her platitudes, chum up himself.

“And what do you make of them?” she made a step forward. Her anger had dissolved over his words. “What are your deliberations?”

“That I want to share some more time and coffee with you, Miss Oswald.”

Now it was on her, either she took the chance, took the risk of investing something - not only effort and time but soul, or she made a feeble excuse and left. Most people would. They would say yes, and not mean it - out of politeness and in consequence of a missing backbone. They would say yes, and never show up again. In Randall’s eyes, there was no more honesty in this world. The job as a journalist had taught him that and maybe it reminded him off a young man he once was.

“I can’t come back tomorrow,” Clara started.

“I see,” he broke the eye contact for the split of a second. It was like throwing a switch - that Clara could see. He was about to shut down the entrance he had offered.

“No, you don’t,” she delivered it in her best teacher voice and it confounded him. “I have a very early and long lecture tomorrow and I have to prepare next week, so Wednesday would be better. I come back on Wednesday. I bring the coffee. You bring the biscuits. And you really have to do me a favour.”

“Yes?”

“You stop calling me, Miss Oswald.”

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this one, if so you can leave a review any time you want! Thanks for the read and till next week!


	8. 08_A Scarf, the Louvre and Shakespeare

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A second coffee meeting.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Sorry for the delay in posting this. Well hopefully it is still Wednesday somewhere ;).

When Wednesday came, Randall woke up at six and instead feeling tired and full of meaningless thoughts, he felt different. He felt delight. It was the first Wednesday, he ever felt delighted to stand up and to start the day.

Taking off his pyjama pants and a dark shirt, he walked into the bathroom to take a shower and to get ready for the day. His mornings were rituals, shower, washing his hair, brushing his teeth, shaving and getting dressed. Every morning the same. Sometimes it took a bit longer, sometimes he was a bit quicker - in the end it was not important, but he left at 6:50 and drove his old Mercedes to the university.

Luckily, he lived near the school so the traffic was not that bad and he could live more with the slow traffic than he could with public transport and the endless stupidity of human beings around him.

In his opinion mankind was not made for being caged up in a small, moving room like a bus, in a high number. Not that he was claustrophobic, Randall simply didn’t like to be surrounded by too many strangers without the possibility to run away. Too many things could happen. Getting a sneeze, getting involved into a conversation he definetly not wanted to make at this early point of morning. Or worse, losing patience, and stepping off the bus to walk the rest of the way.

He was safe in his car. As safe someone could be in a car.

\---

She knocked on his door and waited for him to call her in. This time she had brought a cup holder.

Randall opened the door for her, glancing at her a bit longer than he maybe should, lowering his eyes, and stepped aside so she could come in, “Good morning.”

She stepped inside, smiling, “Good morning,” holding out the cups to him, so she could take off her coat. She had come directly to his office to avoid any encounters with her students or colleagues.

Randall took the cups and watched her taking her coat off, placing it like the day before, over his sofa. Then she searched in her bag for the milk and the sugars and placed them on the coat. When she turned around, he still stood there, like a forgotten puppy, holding the cups.

She smirked, “Are you alright?”

Knowing why she asked him, he gave a short smirk back, before handing her one of the cups, “I think so.”

He grabbed again for the chair and placed it in front of her. For some reason, he didn’t want to sit behind his desk. Maybe because it was just another barrier and he felt there were still enough barriers between them. On the other hand, he simply liked it this way. Nothing between them, no chance to hide.

“So,” she sat down, “I kept my part of the bargain, and you?”

He rose a finger in remembrance and jumped up to go to his desk, “Of course I have.” He opened the Jammie Dodgers, came back to his seat, and offered her the package.

When Clara leaned forward to reach for the sweets, their eyes linked and she stopped in her motion for a while. Out of nowhere, she was suddenly interested in his eye color. It was hard to tell, not only because of his glasses. At first glance they seemed to be green, in the next moment they appeared blue and when he had blinked once, they had changed their color again - now overlaid with a hint of grey.

Soft crinkles started to arise at the side of his eyes and his eyebrows slowly darted upward. When his head drifted an inch to the left, she knew something was happening. She was staring and her hand searched in the thin air for the cookies. She shook her head merley and watched her hand dodging around at least twenty centimeters aside from the package. Biting her lip, she tried to hold back the flush in her cheeks.

“Still making your observations?”

Instead of answering his question, she took a sip from her coffee. She was very aware that he avoided something since she was in the room. To his defence; so was she.

“Say it!”

He never had offered her to be on first name terms and afterwards it might was reckless of her to take the first step in this matter, only minutes after they had met the first time. She didn’t allow all her colleagues to call her by her first name, though she made this decision almost instantly after she met someone new. There was this fine sense in her if someone could be trusted.

Randall was older than her, so that could be the problem, she thought, but if he had been offended by her then he would have said something. He didn’t say anything and so the the problem seemed to lay somewhere else. And he had agreed to call her “Clara,” although with words that didn’t involve her first name, nor an offer for her to call him “Randall”. Clever move of his.

“Say what?”

“My name,” she dipped the cookie in till it was soaked enough, then bit into it.

Randall knew to what she wanted. Watching her chew, his left hand spanned slowly around his right wrist and the tip of his thumb traced along his artery unseen.

She saw he made no attempt of calling her by her first name, even that she had made him give his word to it two days ago.

“You are quite bossy. Anyone ever told you that?” his fingers were still busy fiddling around the cup and palpating his own skin.

“It’s just a name,” she wielded with the hand that held the cup around in the air and Randall finally let go of his wrist to raise a finger at her that made her pause. They both looked toward the paper cup hanging in the air and he refused to continue until she lowered the cup down on her knee.

“It’s _not_ ,” he spoke a little louder to get her attention, to make her focus on him. He knew it wasn’t possible for him to make her understand his reasons, his belief in friendship, his principles in giving in. Did he demand too much? “However, would you feel better when I say it over and over again?” his left hand first lingered into her direction, then he moved it away placing it with the fingertips on his chest.

Clara noticed it was the exact spot were ones heart beat underneath.

He sat like this for several seconds before he stood up, placing the cup in the middle of his desk, and turning around to her, “And if I do, what would that make me?” he walked over to his locker, opening it, reaching for something and when he had it, he closed it again. “What would that make you?”

Clara looked up to him, stunned at first, along with a touch of confusment and a drop of understanding. Still hunting for an answer in her head, she saw him holding out something to her. The something he had taken from the locker. Frowning, she lifted her free hand like a tray and he placed a piece of fabric in her palm. Then she retreated her hand and gave the thing a puzzled look. Her mind couldn’t switch between what had happened, and what was about to happen next.

“Like I said,” he sat back on the stool, “it can get cold in Scotland and I haven’t seen a scarf,” he doted toward the piece of cloth in her hand, “on you.”

She blinked at him, placing the cup aside on the floor, and unfolded the scarf. It was a thick woolen fabric with stripes in dark blue and light grey, along with a bit of dark red in it. It felt warm and expensive. “I..I can’t accept that.”

“I didn’t say I am giving it to you,” he leaned back into the chair and a creak fulfilled the room.

“Oh, I see,” she answered, now back with confidence. “You just wanted to show me how a scarf actually looks in case I have forgotten?”

His tongue scraped along his teeth in his closed mouth. “Keep it please, it would be a shame when you catch a cold.”

The softness in his voice made her scrap the cheeky comment she had in mind, “And you?”

He lowered his eyes to the ground, taking in her concern about his health. “I am fine. I have a few scarves and anyway, you seem to need one desperately,” he looked out of the window for a moment. “I think the temperature dropped to only 10 degrees. Very dangerous temperature, one could suffer frost bite.”

However he was able to keep a straight face, Clara was able to detect the smile that was hidden under a layer of emotional masks. “You have a fine sense of dry humour, Mister Brown-”

“-Randall.”

Clara needed to lean back an inch. What ever his tactic was, it worked on her. “Randall?” she asked, like she would ask for an unknown location. The name of his felt strange on her tongue and she knew it would need some practice of her to give the name its deserved tone.

“Randall,” he said again.

“And .. what would that make me?” her fingertips had buried themselves in the soft wool of his scarf, wondering when had last worn it.

“The only one on the campus,” and added after a moment. “I even would dare to say, the only one in town.”

They both watched her hands all tangled up in the scarf, fiddling, stroking the material, “I don’t even know what to say.” She couldn't believe how soft it is.

“Thank you,” the vulnerability in his voice was so tactile in this moment, that Clara was sure there was a meaning in the two words and not just a hint for her what to say. Before she could analyze it, he spoke on, and the tone had changed again. “Thank you would be a start. For the scarf of course.”

Slowly she started to nod, “Thank you. I’ll give it back to you... in spring.”

“It’s actually a present, not a loan.”

She smiled and folded the scarf back together and then she shoved it under her coat because she wouldn’t stop touching it if she didn’t. “I have heard you worked in France for a while…”

“Yes, in Paris. A few years, before I came back to London.”

“Paris!” it was one of the many places she wished she had seen by now. “How is it?”

“You never been there?” he asked.

“No, never got the chance,” Clara felt bashful. “But it is on top of my list! I think of going… one day.”

Randall could sense her embarrassment and that she felt less because she never had visited Paris. She probably knew a few people from her days back in University, who had visited Paris. There was a good chance that she, one day after her work day, had jumped into the bus and run into an old colleague from ten years ago. They had exchanged awkward pleasantries and had asked each other what they had done the last ten years and she had told proudly that she was a professor now and would teach here in Glasgow and surely her opposite was impressed and then he or she had told that they were working for some graphic design company and before that they had done what people call a “hiatus” these days - travelling around. Seeing some major cities, meeting new people and visiting Paris of course.

_Oh, how lovely Paris was! Ever been there, Clara? No, oh, you really should go._

The next stop she left the bus even if it wasn’t her stop as she couldn’t stand the fact that she was beyond 30 and hadn’t seen anything of the world. At the end of the day, she had sat down on the couch with a glass of wine, and had grabbed the book “101 places to see” and had dodged it in the basement.

“I am sure you do,” so he answered, meaning it sincerely.

Pressing her lips to a forced smile together, thanking him in silent, that he kept back an unnecessary comment about her youth and that she still had all the time in the world. “So how is it? Paris?”

“Well, nice I suppose.”

The way he said it caught Clara’s attention, “You suppose?”

He didn’t know how to say it, “I just-,” he needed to stop himself, making a face, of what he hoped would tell her his own story. That he had never really lived there, only had worked there and the only ways he had done were the ways from his apartment to his work and to some shops he needed to visit for food, cleaning his suits, and meeting up with people for work.

“So you never took the city guide bus tour?” she knew it sounded presumptuous, but she couldn’t hold back her amazement.

“Actually not,” he admitted.

“No sightseeing?”

He only shook his head.

Clara thought about to stop, leave him alone, but it was beyond her comprehension that he had lived in Paris and obviously had never taken the time to simply stroll around. “Eiffel Tower?”

He knew he maybe should feel awkward with all the question, that only had one purpose, to reveal his oddity, but he didn’t and it was because of Clara and he simply knew, she didn’t want to do any harm with her questions. “What’s with it?”

She smirked, “Have you seen it?”

“It is hard to overlook, actually,” his tone was the one of a toddler, who just had revealed that the sun was yellow.

“I mean if you have visited it,” without realizing she had drifted into teacher mode, trying to convince an eight year old, to tell her more, “Have you been on top of it?”

He did as if he needed to think about it, as if someone would forget something like that, “I don’t like heights, so.. no.” Clara’s consternations was almost tactile, so he quickly added, “I was in the Louvre once.”

“For fun?”

“For research.”

Clara bit her cheeks to hide a smile. “You spent several years in Paris and never really took the time to look at it?”

For a second he opened his lips, for a defending speech, but then he closed them again, as if he only just now realized, what opportunity he had missed. “You must think I am a very boring person.”

He had never found the will and the drive to walk around Paris as a tourist. Surely on his walks he had seen a lot of the town, but never taking the actual time to stop, to look, to wonder, to take in the beauty and the buzzing vibe of a town, that people considered one of a kind.

She saw the flicker of regret on his face, “No, I don’t think that.”

He lifted his face in surprise, “What do you think, then?”

Clara drank the last sip from her paper mug and rose from his couch, “That your reasons maybe are the same as mine,” grabbing up her coat and her bag, and the scarf of his only between two of her fingers, “There’s a lot of things you need to get across this world. A plane, a ship or a train. Guts and wits,” she gave the moment a coy smile, feeling her heart beat like drum, “But you know the thing you need most of all?”

He rose and watched her thoughtful, “What?”

She grinned nervously down to the corner of his desk before she delivered with eyes on him, “You need a hand to hold.”

The scarf slipped out of her hand and he immediately bowed down to take it up again. Toying it through his hands for a moment, before he folded it again, and placed it over the coat that hung over her arm.

He liked that sentence, he really did, but before he could tell her, she found the silence in the room threatening, “In case you think I just came up with a very smart and philosophical answer, because I am an English teacher and some people actually think we can recite all 38 plays and 153 sonnets of Shakespeare by some kind of magical talent - that phrase was not from me. I stole it from somewhere, just can’t remember the source, in case you are wondering. I am babbling.”

Why did he feel the need to press his index finger on her lips? To make her hush or simply to make her staggered? Probably a bit of both.

“154.”

“Excuse me?”

“Shakespeare wrote 154 sonnets,” his gaze was fixed on her for a moment and she felt the inability to breath grew inside of her. “And I think your are charming when you are babbling, Clara.”

The inability to react joined her troublesome breathing reflex. “But of course, it is very disappointing, that you can’t recite all 38 plays of Mister Shakespeare. And now I advise you to breathe again before you faint.”

With that she exhaled loudly, “Are you doing this on regular basis? Pointing out women’s flaws?”

He blushed slightly, his lips pressed together to a thin smile, “Only to conceal my own flaws. I shall beg you for forgiveness, then.”

She smiled at him, taking his appearance one last time in, she liked the suit he was wearing, some kind of light brown with a vest and a blue tie. “No need for an apology. I’ll see you tomorrow maybe?”

He felt her eyes on him, traveling along his expensive suit and it made him touch his tie to flatten it in case it was wrinkled. An impulse he was unable to suppress, and it angered him slightly, but her soft smile warmed him inside and washed away the doubts about wrinkled cloth, “I’d like that.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The quote that Randall uses is of course shamelessly stolen from Doctor Who:
> 
> "There’s a lot of things you need to get across this universe. Warp drive, wormhole refractors. You know the thing you need most of all? You need a hand to hold."
> 
> Thanks for following this story, see you next week!


	9. 09_Misunderstandings

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Some days are not supposed to end good.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> After we are so deep into the story I wanted to say, in case you are expecting other familiar characters, they will probably never show up.  
> For some reason I decided to write this story manly around Randall and Clara and as in real life they have to battle with the crisis they produce by themselves and not other give to them.  
> I'll concentrate mainly on these two, there will be no Rose Tyler or whatever like in other fics. But I stick to the characters who have shown up already and to the "Randall/Lix" I have in my tags.  
> I have not the patience to write a story line with 5 other side characters and I think this story doesn't need them.

The next morning Clara found herself waiting impatiently for the bus - it was already late for around 10 minutes and she danced on the spot with her feet to keep warm and to get rid of the tensions in her body. After she had left Randall’s office, the only thought she had all day, and all night was to see him again. Visit him in the morning with two cups of coffee and to talk with him.

It didn’t matter about what they were talking, she only wanted to be around him and when she realized that - in front of her mirror, in her bathroom in the morning - she was scared how fast she had become attached to his company. After only a few meetings, a couple of minutes, some shy smiles. She knew she was on the brink of something. Something big, something that would change the inside of her. Right now, there still was a possibility to stop. Not go over to him again, not bring coffee, not making an effort. If she wanted to move away from him, now was the time. But one more meeting, and she knew she wanted to see him again, and again, because she felt a slight bond growing. For some reason she sensed he felt the same. He didn’t showed it like she did, but under all this layers of fear of disappointment, he probably had experienced - who hasn’t - this layers of shyness and insecurities, she was sure he liked her presence in his rooms.

Brushing her teeth, she had told herself she would ask him this, straight forward.

As if this would ever work!

The plan was beginning to break down while she noticed the clock ticking away with the minutes. When the bus finally arrived, she knew she would be late by at least 15 minutes and she had to go to get the coffee.

So when the bus arrived, she hurried to get the coffee and found herself in a longer queue than usual. _‘Damn you, fate!’_

She just could have quit the coffee and go to him without it, but for some ridiculous reason, she still felt the need to have a reason to go to his office. Coffee was always a good one. A cup to hold, to keep fingers occupied. Also, the time was up. She only had ten minutes left till her next lecture and she was sure he had some tight schedules too.

And if this was not enough she ran into Danny in the hallway, when she was about to climb the stairs to his office, to at least say sorry for her delay and to give him the coffee, so he knew she really tried to see him. Meeting Danny now meant she wouldn’t be able to go upstairs, not without brushing Danny off in a very rude way, and so Randall might think she had forgotten of him, or worse didn’t care anymore. She sighed.

“Clara! You look a bit stressed, you’re alright?” Danny looked her over, seeing the two cups of coffee in her hand.

“Yeah,” she looked down to the mugs, then back to Danny. It was like the elephant in the room no one wanted to talk about yet. “My bus was late again, and … and I needed to do something before coming here, and.. well, let’s stick with; I am late, and you know-”

“-you can’t stand that,” he smiled brightly. His eyes flickered from the coffee to her neck. “Hey you finally found your scarf.”

Clara’s head jolted up a bit. Yes, she had decided to use Randall’s scarf - what else she could do with the cold outside - and she had found out, it was not only soft in her hands, it was even softer around her neck, and it was brilliantly warm. The best part of it was; it had a faint scent of Randall on it.

Now Danny mentioned it, she feared he would recognize it as a typical men’s scarf and would make some wild connection with a man he didn’t knew but she knew. Her brain went haywire. “Yes,” was the only thing she could say.

Then she hold out the two cups to him, so she could take off the scarf because it was warm and she still feared Danny would ask more questions about it. “Want one? You can have one,” she quickly added, knowing there was no point in wasting a good coffee to the bin.

As if all the morning was not enough trouble and filled with unfortunate accidents, it came at it had to come. While loosening the scarf around her neck, she saw Randall coming down the stairs, some papers in hand, obviously heading toward the basement. He stopped in his tracks just a fraction of second, and Clara knew exactly what the picture was, he saw. She tugging away his scarf, she standing in front of Danny - a possible boyfriend - holding the two coffees, which was supposed to be his. Where was the hole she could jump into?

Danny had seen him too, and he had seen that Clara had reacted to his appearance, and so there was no other option for Randall as to stop by the side of the couple.

Randall took his time, letting his glances wander over Danny, trying to place him somewhere. He was sure he had seen him in the halls before, but he was unsure how to place him in connection with Clara. He was holding two coffees, one for Clara, the other one for? So she seemed to have a little habit of drinking coffees with colleagues.

How dare he was, thinking it was something special to her, sharing a coffee with him.

How stupid of him. Of course there was no bigger interest in him, as in the man in front of him. He gave Danny Pink a polite nod, following with his eyes Clara’s hands, how she finally managed to shove his scarf into her bag.

“Professor Oswald,” he gave her the same professional nod he had given Danny and it hurt her. “Good Morning.”

She almost stuttered out his first name, but regained control of herself, “Mister Brown, good morning, what a pleasure to meet you,” he looked at her only for a moment, before he turned to Danny, waiting for an introducing. “I am sorry, this is Danny Pink. Math department.”

Danny gave Clara one of the cups back and then held out his hand with a smile, “Math department, I think we are up next with the interviews. Nice meeting you. Clara told me about her interview she had to give. It made me expect something exciting.”

“Did she?” he blinked at her, and she could see that he was hurt and unsure how to handle the situation the best. “Don’t expect too much.”

Danny sensed something too, but he took it as Randall’s usual aloofness and didn’t gave much about it. “Well, we’ll see. I am sorry, I have to go.” he reached out with his hand to Claras arm. “Thanks for thinking of me. You are the best!” he gave Randall a short awkward smile and then headed off.

Clara felt heat creep up her face, and embarrassment. She needed to explain this to him, knowing he had taken this all wrong, but the moment she turned to him and opened her mouth, the school bell rang.

“Professor Oswald,” he only said, telling her with that he was needed to be in the studio.

Her answer was merely a whisper, while she followed him walk away with her eyes, “Mister Brown.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I know this now will come a bit cruel, because this is a shorter chapter and also a cliffhanger, but I have decided to post the next chapter only in two weeks.  
> It gives me a little time to write more for this story without messing stuff up and also it gives my beta a bit more room.  
> I promise you it will be worth the waiting. Chapter 10 and 11 is written (drafts) and 11 will be a very long chapter, so I will make it up to you for this shorter one. If I find enough spirit and time to write enough Chapter 10 will come sooner, but for now take my excuses and we see each other in two weeks. I better make you wait now as disappoint you later.


	10. 10_A Phone Call (I)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Will they clear up their misunderstanding?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Two weeks are over, thanks for the patience! I was sick for a couple of days, so I would have been unable to post anyway . But I made good progress and you guys are settled till Chapter 15! And then we still have some more to come.

Holding her lectures that day was pure torture. She was absent minded all the time, still with her thoughts of the _‘went so wrong morning’_ with Randall. She still saw his cold glances before her inner eye, what it told her about his hurt feelings. 

He, one of many, she obviously shared coffee with. A false thought, she needed to get the out of the world as soon as possible, but like it was, she had lectures till in the afternoon and only came to her office at around 3 o’clock, where she quickly tried to come up with a plan. 

Should she go upstairs to tell him that everything was a mistake? She definitely should, but she was afraid his accusing looks would make her cringe and she would be unable to tell him what she wanted. His eyes, god, they were so distracting and she needed to be in control for this, when she didn’t want to end up as a stuttering fool in front of him, so she opened her laptop and checked the university homepage for the telephone number of his office. 

Finding it was easy. Dialing it was not. 

“You can do this!” she persuaded herself. 

Her fingers shook slightly when she dialed his number and her heartbeat raced so fast and loud that she was afraid, she wouldn’t understand a word when he would pick up. Let alone the feeling to throw up soon.

It rang six times, and she was about to hang up, cursing that he was not there, also a bit relieved, when out of a sudden a sharp “ _Brown_ ” echoed over the line. That staggered her and she tried hectically to formulate some words or at least a sound. She was glad no one could see the farce of her pantomimic expressions. 

“Anyone there?”

“Yes!” she finally croaked, gagging the receiver in front of her because she felt so stupid. 

“Who is this, please?” he asked and she could see him in front of her, all the little lines on his forehead wrinkling. 

She listened hard, hoping she could hear if someone else was in the room with him or not. But she only could hear what seemed to be his breath or the glimmer of the line. Clara could hear a slight huff and knew she was pressing his patience.

“It’s me,” she said quickly. “Clara. Oswald.”

There was a dead silence in the line, and she only could imagine what he was doing and thinking now. He hadn’t expected her call and was now considering what to do and what awaited him.

“Yes?” it was without emotion and Clara’s courage sank to a non existing level.

“Do I call in an inconvenient moment? Or do you have a minute?” her pulse was fast and her heart seemed about to go haywire any second. She knew her voice was shaky and someone like Randall would catch up on this easily, but she hadn’t the power to think about it. She needed to focus on her words, not how they sounded. 

He hesitated, that she could sense. Randall was thinking about telling her a lie. A lie she would detect, because Clara was someone who could catch up on this too. “It’s fine now.”

A sigh of relief filled the line. “Listen, I am sorry.”

“Sorry about what? Not telling me about your boyfriend?” he knew he shouldn’t have said that, but the picture of Danny Pink, patting her arm, smiling at her, and walking off with _his_ coffee, made him feel betrayed. He was not good with betrayal. 

“Shut up!” she barked at him in her best teacher voice and it made one of his eyebrows twitch up. “I don’t have a boyfriend.”

He frowned. More bewildered than concerned and he needed to remember himself that she couldn’t see him, “But-”

“I said shut up,” she repeated, this time more friendlier. “Danny Pink, the man you met in the morning, he is just a colleague. Okay, yes, we have dated one or two times, but it was only dinner and nothing ever came off it,” she explained of course with a tick to quick voice. “He has a girlfriend, Adorable Coop from the University admin office-,”

“Who?” Randall thought he needed to interrupt now when he wanted to find out more, or she would probably go on till she would fall unconscious because in lack of air. 

“Oh, ahm,” she fell over her words in her head. The dialogue in her head was already five sentences ahead and now it was like he had grabbed her by the arm, pulling her back - she needed stammering seconds and a few more grimaces to find an answer to his question. “Sissy Cooper. I call her Adorable Coop, because.. well, she is somehow adorable,” she frowned over that comment. “What I wanted to say is; I don’t visit half the staff for coffee in the morning,” followed by an exhausting blow of air right into the phone.

“Well,” Randall gave the phone a short look as if it was damaged, “that would be impossible anyway, when we consider that there are working over 2000 teachers,” he said dryly. 

Clara felt mocked, and when she felt like this she usually forgot her fear and discouragement. There was an easy way to bring Clara Oswald back into the game. Underestimate her in some sort of way - like mocking. “Are you smiling right now?”

“No.”

“I think you are.”

“How would you know? Can you hear me roaring with laughter or something?”

She pursed her lips, knowing exactly that he had smiled earlier. It was new to her that he always seemed to know a way around her arguments. Randall was way too good answering questions without delivering answers. One day she should point that fact out to him, otherwise she could assume he knew this already. “I sensed it.”

He turned with his chair toward the window to look outside, “You are psychic now?” 

That made her smile and reassured her in her actions, “You know I am not. So?”

His lips curled again into a pursing smile, “Yes, I was smiling.” 

“See!” she looked upwards to the ceiling, assuming him to be there somewhere in the building.

“See what? We are on the phone.”

“That I was right,” she had to take the little triumphs he allowed her. 

“So you did call me to talk about your boyfriend,” he brought them back the topic.

“As I said, I don’t have one,” she couldn’t believe the man at the end of the line, could make her emotions switch so fast. Again there was anger and also fear and her heart had found a way to make itself noticeable again. “Today,... everything went wrong. The bus didn’t come, and I was late, and then, there was Danny, and then you came in the most inconvenient timing down the stairs, seeing me…,” she pictured the moment again and felt how ashamed she should be.

“...tugging away my scarf,” it surprised him that he was able to voice the most painful moment to her. 

“I… I didn’t do it because…,” what was she about to say? That she had spent all the bus drive long sniffing secretly at his scarf? She couldn’t tell him this. “I didn’t do it because I was ashamed,” and then she remembered why she had tugged away the scarf. It was warm and she had been afraid that Danny would ask her about the scarf. “No wait…”

His eyebrows performed a little twitch, “You were ashamed?”

“I wasn’t, why would I be? But… I was afraid,” she said it more to herself as to him.

Randall leaned back into his office chair, staring at the little elephant sculptures he had placed on his desk, and a creak crawled through the silence. His fingertips landed softly onto the letter in front of him on his desk, moving it up and down, just the slightest. He thought long if he should ask her about her reasons while staring down to the name of the sender, the dark blue ink. 

Clara waited. She wouldn’t go on when he wouldn’t ask. There were only two floors between them, but when the silence filled the telephone line it felt like miles - thousands of them. Her heart was in her mouth, so hard it beated. 

His fingers pushed the paper away from the edge of the table, his skin rubbing against the ledge, when he let go of it, “Why?”

Clara needed to smile in relief, “I was afraid he would ask me about the scarf, where it’s from. Then I would have had to be honest and tell it is from you.”

“Would that have been bad?” he asked softly.

“No, but there would have been so much questions. Questions I don’t have an answer for yet. And how can I answer questions to others,when I am not able to answer them myself,” Clara had leaned forward, one hand on the puncher, moving it slightly forth and back. 

He understood. “So what answers do you need, then?”

“I really enjoy coffee with you. The only person I meet for coffee is you, Randall,” she smiled down toward an ink stain on her desk, rubbing absently around its corners. “And I want to come back tomorrow and the day after that and so on.”

One of his hands found the way under his vest, pressing against his chest, feeling the beat there, feeling a happy feeling over her words, “So why don’t you?”

“Would you like that?”

“I think I said that already,” he felt then sad, had missed her in the morning. Her babbling, and her warmth. The wide face of hers and her cheeky comments.

“Tell me about the picture,” she quickly said before the courage left her again. There must be something with it, when it was the center of her first slight confrontation and Clara needed to know what would come with it. “Please!” she added quietly.

His eyes settled on the picture, and his fingers back on the envelope. He knew he needed to tell her about it, it was only fair and if he would make a secret out of it for too long, she would walk away from him, fearing disappointment. Randall knew all too well how it was to invest, - your heart, - your soul only to be disappointed later. 

“Not on the phone,” he answered.

“So you tell me tomorrow over coffee?”

“I tell you next Friday over dinner,” he smirked, while he imagined her face go all eyes over his suggestion. “If you let me take you out of course.”

Clara had gripped the puncher in surprise, “You want to take me out? For dinner?”

“If you like. I could cook for you also, but I think we should start with ordinary dinner, and then slowly move forward,” and he didn’t realize what he had said, because he hadn’t asked a woman out for dinner in at least four years. 

Clara gave him a little time, till the words - their meaning - had sunk down in his head before she answered, “So is this a date then, with a possibility of further interaction?” She could hear him almost swallow at his own breath. 

“I meant…”

She smirked and would have given a lot to see him in this moment, all flustered and coy, “I know what you mean. I am sorry, I couldn’t let the chance slip of teasing you.”

“That was very … bold of you, Miss Oswald,” he licked his lips, thinking about a good place for dinner already. “So is this a yes? Because I know a nice italian restaurant and I could imagine to pick you up at eight, and then I tell you... about the picture.”

“Before I answer, one last question,” she needed to know. “Do I go on a date with a married man because the pic-”

“No,” he interrupted. “You don’t. You don’t do anything immoral if you’re afraid of that. And that’s all I am telling you right now.”

She started to nod, “Great, good, wonderful, brilliant!” The words spilling themselves out without her control. 

“Do you try to tell to me that you know 110 ways of saying ‘yes’, but are not able to recite at least seven sonnets of Shakespeare in a row without peeking?”

She blushed, “Probably.” Did she fall in love with his sense of humour already?

Something in him slowly flared to life and he couldn’t say yet what it was. Warmth. Life. Could it be that she had planted a seed in his chest without his noticing, that now started to grow, watered with words, with smiles, little cheeky comments, soft nervousness and a yes in 110 variations? Did it scare him? Yes. “Can I ask you a question too, before we hang up?” 

“It’s only fair.”

“Why do you do it? Why do you say yes?”

Clara smiled at the puncher in her hands. What an easy answer, “Because I like you.”

Was he afraid? 

No. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I really love comments, so don't hold back! See you in two weeks! Nah, just kidding, see you in one!


	11. 11_Dinner to go

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised here a longer chapter. Randall and Clara finally having some classic dinner... well almost. ;)

He picked her up at seven with his car. When the doorbell rang, Clara pressed the button for the intercom, “I be there in a minute!”

She had needed over an hour to decide for a dress. Was uncertain what was too short, what was too prudish, what sent the wrong signals and what colour would match with his suit - not that she knew what he was about to wear.

Red? No, definitely way too red and it let her look like she couldn’t wait to drag him into a dark corner to suck out his blood.

She had a nice dark grey dress, good enough for a parent’s evening, almost too good, but for a date she looked like her grandmother.

The next three dresses were either too short, too much skin and one didn’t fit anymore. When the hell did she put on pounds? Might have shrunk in the washing machine.

Then finally she settled down on a dark blue dress with nice embroidery and cutwork. Shoulder free and a bit short, but she decided to wear black tights and a wider jacket so it was still acceptable for a first date. She could imagine Randall wouldn’t mind.

The next hour she spent with make up and putting her hair into a loose bun. She needed three attempts till she was satisfied with her appearance in the mirror. Putting on her heels and grabbing for her purse, she hurried down the stairs, flinging the door open, she found Randall waiting by his car with his back on her.

When he heard the door go open, he turned around and needed to remind himself not to stare at her. His eyes traveled quickly over her appearance, feeling his heart set a faster pace and that heat sprawled in his cheeks. Swallowing and quickly licking his lips, he stepped forward. 

It came to him, that he had should have brought some flowers, if only to occupy his hands. Now he didn’t know what to do with them and fumbled with his fingertips - he must have looked like a school boy, before remembering his manners. “You look very nice tonight.”

She smiled at him, finding him offering her his arm. 

“Thank you,” she shoved a strand of hair behind her ear, taking the chance to look at him and it turned out she had made the right decision. 

His dark grey three piece suit gave her dress the right credit and his blue tie almost matched the colour of her dress. If she hadn’t noticed before she noticed now that he seemed to fancy these kind of suits and she found herself asking if he possessed other clothing like casual tees or a modern jumper. Not that she minded, he looked incredibly attractive in these suits - not many man could wear such thing all day long without looking boring earlier or later. “I spent like an hour on the decision of wearing it.”

He chuckled, opening the door of the car for her, “If it helps,” he held out his hand to help her into the car. “I needed twenty minutes to decide on a tie.”

Smirking at him, when he sat himself down, she reached out for the tie, brushing a slight wrinkle out of it, for what she earned a surprised look, “Twenty minutes well spent.”

He nodded, touching the cotton there again, correcting the knot once more and feeling foolish for not holding back with his need to control the thing. His hand swayed for a few second in the air, needing to check again but not wanting, not wanting to make her frown at him.

She sprung to his rescue, “A bit to the left, maybe.” 

And he thanked her with a relieved smile and a look with his eyes, that should tell her his thank you. They would talk about this; for now he did what he thought must be done, and then started the engine.

“There is this little nice Italian restaurant not far from here. Three blocks maybe,” he set the indicator. “We could have walked, but I noticed you forgot your scarf again.”

That’s when she simply grinned at him with sparkling eyes. He stopped the car half way out of the parking spot, “What is it?”

She opened her purse and held it out to him. The scarf neatly folded so it would fit inside the small handbag. 

“Clara Oswald, you _are_ a surprise. In every way.”

“I know.”

Randall drove for a couple of minutes and then found a parking spot around the corner. Opening the door for her, he offered her again his arm and she took it gratefully. She leaned softly into him, not only because it was cold.

Feeling her shiver slightly, “Will you take my coat, when I offer it to you? You seem cold.”

She squeezed his arm, “No, you said it is around the corner. I am fine, really.”

He wasn’t pleased with her reaction. It would be his fault when she would get a cold, even though she had decided for the lighter outfit. Quickening his pace they came around the corner and he stopped abruptly in his steps. There was a second his facial expression totally slipped and he must have looked like a deer in headlights.

Clara almost tripped so harsh was the stop. Confused for a second she looked around as if he had seen something, an accident, a person or a ghost, “What is it?”

It was hard for him to find words, also he was still busy finding out what had went wrong for himself by looking toward the street signs. “I...I it’s the correct street. I am sure.”

She turned around with him, reading the street name, then she turned around across the street. The only restaurant that was there was a pizza take out store. Clara began to understand what had happened.

“So, is this the famous italian restaurant you wanted to have dinner with me?” she couldn’t hold back a little mocking.

Still shocked he stepped away from her, “The last time I was there, it was a fine Italian restaurant!” He couldn’t believe it. His staggered face flung between her and the take away, unsure what to do. It felt as someone had swept him off his feet.

“Randall? When was the last time you had dinner there?” Clara asked him carefully.

He turned swiftly around, full of confidence. It only lasted for a second, then he realized that it wasn’t a week or two but, “A couple years. Maybe a bit more.” He lowered his head in embarrassment.

Her hand covered her mouth so he wouldn’t see the smile that slowly turned into a serious laughing fit. Raising his hand in defeat he nodded and made a gesture that allowed her to laugh as she pleased. “I should have checked if it was still there.” Her giggling was contagious. “I am sorry.”

She stepped closer to him, grabbing his arm to steady herself, still snorting about his faux pas. “You might should have.”

He watched her giggle for a few more seconds, “I made a fool out of me,” he sighed and tried frantically to come up with an alternative. Of course he had none, because he never went out to dinner. “I’ll take you somewhere else, even if I don’t know another place.”

“No, please! There!” she pointed out to the little take out. “We can eat there.”

“No, I can’t take you out to an diner?” he already walked a few steps away, hoping she would follow. She did not.

Why did she like it so much, when he was horrified? Maybe because he forgot the shell in which he lived, forgot the walls he had built around him to keep others away, to hide his emotions and now Clara had found out how to bring them down. By doing something against all the normal ways. “Sure, we can. I know this one actually. Sometimes I order from there. The pizza is very good.”

Randall wasn’t sure what to do, he swayed back and forth, wanting to be by her side and take her out to a fancy restaurant and not to a diner, not in her best dress and his best suit. On the other side he could see she wouldn’t argue over it anymore. “Clara!”

There was only one word that would stop her from dragging him into the store. Her name, over and over again. Then she would leave with him, wherever he would want to. Her name on his tongue, the Scottish growl of the ‘R’, it did many things to her, but he wasn’t yet aware of his power over her when using her first name.

“Come on, I am hungry, you said you take me out. So take me out.”

“I meant a nice restaurant and not this!” he tried it with a helpless smile and a gesture that meant begging. “In the end you think I do this on all first dates.”

She walked up to him, slipped her arm through his and dragged him with her, “And how many first dates you had in the last few days?” she asked flirtatiously. “And do you go always to the same takeaway? Will they know you by name?”

He followed her and it must have been an amusing picture for others. She the smaller person dragging him the tall and lanky figure into a takeaway, both very overdressed for the occasion.

When they enter, the man dressed in a red company uniform glanced up for a second. Then he went back to his pizzas after he realized what odd couple had found their way into his store.

“Hi,” Clara leaned against Randall, who felt quite uncomfortable, not knowing where to look and acknowledging his stare with a short smirk.

“Hi,” the man answered not sure what to make off it. “Can I help you?”

“Uhm, yes,” Randall began. “We...we would like to eat something. Here.”

“Okay.”

Randall glanced down at Clara, who was still giggling, and it felt like he had went out with a young teenager, but he found it quite charming even when he didn’t show it. “Do you have pizza?” he asked dryly and it wasn’t his intention to make a joke. Rolling his eyes, he rose one finger for an apology. “I mean we would like to have two pizzas.”

“For to go?”

“For here,” Clara said and turned around to the only bar table in the room. “We can eat here, can we?”

The man eyed both of them for a few seconds, considering if this was a joke, but when Randall started to order without waiting for him, he shrugged and wrote down his order. “Anything to drink?”

“Do you have beer?” Clara called from the table.

“No, ma’am, only non-alcoholic. Coke, Fanta,” he explained looking back to Randall giving him a long stare, as if he wanted to tell him that he hopefully had his _‘gone wild girl’_ under control.

“I’ll take a Coke, then,” Clara had seated herself on a stool, her feet whirling in the air. Randall needed the clearing of the throat of the man behind the counter to remind him, that they were not alone.

Turning around, “The lady takes a Coke and I would like to have a Fanta..”

“Sure,” he placed the cans on the counter and told him the pizza would take a few minutes. With that he turned around and began to make the food for them.

Randall took the cans and thought about asking for some glasses, but he spared himself the further embarrassment and joined Clara at the table. She still let her feet whirl in the air, watching herself with a smile on her lips.

“You are enjoying this,” it was not a question but a conclusion.

Grabbing the can, he had opened for her, she smiled at him, “Yes and why not?”

“I should have taken you out to a fancy, expensive restaurant,” he took off his coat and placed it over the stool.

“I am sure it would have been fine and nice, but I doubt we would have laughed that much as we have laughed in this place,” she watched him drink from his Fanta. Watched him placing the can on the table again, seeing how he frowned at the table for a moment, probably asking himself when it was the last time that the table had been cleaned. Watched him turn the can slowly around itself. “It suits you.”

“Mh?” he stopped. “What exactly?”

“A smile,” she nipped from the drink. “You do it so rarely. I found myself asking why and thought that it suits you. You should do it more often.”

He watched her drink, then his eyes dropped to her hands in front of him and he checked the fit of his glasses, as if it was a dream they projected. “So about your question, earlier,” he speaks on. “How many first dates I had last week.”

She laughed, the peak of her tongue peeking out between her teeth, and he thinks she is adorable and he is afraid and doesn’t know why.

“Do you want me to take a guess?” she asked when he kept silent.

“I don’t do first dates,” he admitted and immediately regrets. She smirked over it. “I mean, I haven’t asked a woman out for quite a while. You maybe should consider this.”

His words sounded odd to her, and she is unsure what to say, so she waited, observing him and his hands. How one hand slowly embraced the other. Every second she kept silent became a torture for him.

“Why should I? Do I have to run tests also? Give you a questionnaire you have to fill out till tomorrow at 12 o’clock?” she mocked and almost couldn’t stop herself, only when she saw that his eye contact slowly drifted away she knows she had hurt him. “Sorry, I didn’t meant… I don’t want to consider anything yet. That is all. You haven’t asked out a woman out for ages? I haven’t asked out a man out for ages, if it is about that.”

“No, I just thought,” he thought about what to say next and couldn’t come to a point. The pizzas got served and he is grateful for it.

“I think we should see what happens,” she answered for him. “Would that be okay for you?”

“Yes.”

He looked around on the the table for cutlery, but there is none and he found Clara smile then when he asked her with his eyes what now. She had already taken a slice into her hands and he started nodding, puffing air, “Tell me, is this the worst date you ever had?”

Chewing she mumbled, “I am still making up my mind.”

“So I have still a chance to land second to last?” he had finally given in and had taken a slice into his hands, taking a bite - surprisingly it is delicious and while he waited for an answer he looked at his food as if he just had found a new favourite place to eat.

“No, you have still chance to come first place,” a long trail of cheese hanged from her mouth to the slice she had moved as far away as she could, to detach it. Giggling she used one finger to roll the cheese up, till she had a thick knob of it on her finger.

“Watching you now, I should be glad that I haven’t taken you out to one of these expensive restaurants,” he didn’t smile, there was only a short twitch with one of his eyebrows and Clara had learned that it’s the eyebrows which play the emotions for him.

He found himself in the same cheese-dilemma only seconds after he had said it and it made him blush and her come to his rescue making another knob of cheese she eats from her finger mischievously.

Minutes went by while they eat in silence and battle with the cheese and exchange how good everything tastes, when Clara remembers what he had promised her and what she needed to know, even if it would spoil the beautiful atmosphere they were in at this moment. “Randall?”

There was something in her voice, soft and precarious also expectant. He lowered the slice down, cleaned his hands with one of the many tissues between them and grabs for his Fanta. “The picture.”

“The picture,” she repeats and felt her heart quicken and noticed his stern look and the way his eyes drifted away into the distance behind her. There was only one thing she now could do. Wait for him to tell her.

He lost track of the seconds that went by and he forgot for a moment that he was in a take away with Clara and not somewhere in Spain.

_“Dear Randall,”_

To many Wednesdays had past since he had left London again. He was drifting away and it needed Clara to bring him back.

The touch of her hand was soft and when he had shook of the past he saw her concerns. “Sofia,” he exhaled, reaching for her hand, when she was about to take it away again. Gently, like he would grab for glass, afraid to hurt both of them. 

Clara looked down, seeing his fingers and his palm sweeping over her skin. The touch was so light, it was almost impossible to feel. 

“Her name was Sofia,” his hand retreated from her, came to rest directly in front of her fingers and they both knew he had tried to reach out for his long lost daughter. Realizing his mistake, his hand became a fist and he pressed hard against the knot of his tie.

“I shouldn’t have asked.”

His eyes found her again, “Don’t be blinded by my grief, Clara. It was the right thing to ask.”

She felt foolish. He was right and yet she somehow didn’t wanted to push the subject further, knowing it would only hurt. “Even when it inflicts hurt?”

He eyed her for a bit, then the plate, he knew they wouldn’t eat up, “Will you walk with me for a bit?” When she nodded he placed way too much money on the table, grabbed his coat and held the door open for Clara.

The air was chilly and she shivered when they stepped outside into the cold. Opening her purse she pulled out the scarf, blushing over it and giving Randall a shy smile before she wrapped it around her neck.

“Here,” he placed his coat over her shoulders. “No, please take it. I am fine. I am not cold.”

She tucked herself into the thick coat, noticing the faint scent of him.

They walked past his car, he leading the way into the direction of her apartment. He would guide her home.

Clara knew he would speak up any second to explain ‘Sofia’, but she felt the need to prevent him from it. She didn’t know why yet, there was this feeling deep down in her stomach, that made her reach for his arm to stop him from walking. Clara had came up with the story by herself. Figuring out with the little details she had.

He looked down at her hand enfolding around his arm, pulling him slightly and so he stopped, tilting his head to see her better in the dark.

“Now I feel bad,” she begun and he shook his head in response without knowing a reason. Feeling bad in his presence also couldn’t mean something good and nothing he wanted her to achieve. “Don’t tell me… about the picture.”

The words came unexpected, “I don’t understand.”

Clara grabbed the lapels of his coat and pulled the fabric more around her, searching for shelter in the way to large coat and searching for confidence. “Haven’t you said enough already about it?”

He licked his lips, shoving his hands into his pockets and wasn’t sure what to make of the situation. With a shift of his body he begged her to go on. 

“Her name _was_ Sofia,” she repeated and he nodded in painful remembrance. A picture of a baby girl. A time stream that had suddenly ended, had prevented another picture. “You told a story in only four words and it’s obviously not a good one.”

Randall shifted to the other side, admiring her in silence about her talent - understanding things others - in his experience - never did. “So tell me why, … Clara,” how could he make her name sound so special? “Why do you feel bad?”

It was cold and she could see he was shivering, dancing on the spot to keep himself warm, that's why she suggested with a tilt of her head to walk on - slowly.

“When you told me in your office, this girl, was your daughter, I of course thought about it. And I imagined what you would tell me about her today,” in memory of it, she laughed. “So I expected you tell me a story about a young woman,” she turned slightly to him, catching his smile knowing he was picturing her, the young woman, that never existed. “Traveling this world, with her boyfriend, discovering deep hidden beautiful spots. Seeing wonders. I hoped for a story about a wall in your home covered with postcards from all around the world. A promise to show me maybe,” she gave him a blushing smile over that remark and yes, he would have liked that. Postcards from Rome, Paris, India, Australia and the states. There were no postcards and no pictures, only a wall, grey and empty.

They had reached the street where she lived and without noticing this, Randall stopped, “You described her lively. Also you described a ghost. I grieve for her, of course, there are many regrets, but there are mine and don’t make it yours. I want to tell you.”

“What if I don’t want to hear it?”

“You only say that, because you not want to see me … see me sad, am I right?”

“Sofia is dead, isn’t she? I don’t think I have the right to know more about it. Not now, later. Tell me later! When you trust me.”

“When I trust you? You think I don’t trust you?” he asked.

“You aren’t a man giving away your trust easily, Randall,” maybe she knew this about him, because she was the same. “We both want the other to earn it.”

“How?”

“Patience, probably,” she smiled to the ground.

“Can I insist on telling you?” he made a step closer to her, facing her.

“This is our first date,” for a second her fingers spread away from her, longing for Randall. “I don’t want to see you sad.”

He saw her fingers, and felt his twitch in response but he couldn’t bring up the courage to reach for her. It was a mess, everything right now was a mess in his opinion. He needed to tell her about Sofia and all the things that were connected with. On the other hand there was still time, this was a first date, and he would tell her later. Hopefully before it was too late.

He gave in, stepping aside so she would lead the way to her door. “Can I say something? Can I talk about an observation I made tonight?”

Turning slightly, she smirked, “Let’s hear.”

“For a second I thought, that the description of Sofia, was actually you,” his hand stroke his chin, down his throat. “I know we have talked about it. Briefly. About travelling.”

They had reached her door, but Randall was not ready to let her go, so he fixed his gaze on her, not wanting the evening to end. She demanded him to silence about Sofia and he demanded her to speak about travelling. There was a certain diffidence, now he had seen through her. 

“Maybe I assumed that this is something young people want to do, what someone wants to achieve in this age. Travelling, what better could there be?”

“You’re talking as if you would be old.”

“I’m not a young woman anymore,” her hands shot up under the coat in a wild gesture.

“You definitely look like one!” his eyes traveled around her face, taking in her features, the non existent signs of being old. “How old are you? Twenty...nine?”

She laughed up, “Thirty two.”

“You are not old, Clara. I am old.”

Gazing at him for such long, that he felt uncomfortable, “You are staring at me, once again.”

Her mouth opened and she tried to bring out the words but she only looked like a fish. 

_‘Say it!’_ she yelled inside, reaching out for his hands to take them in hers. 

The touch was as surprising to him as to her and he stared startled down to their linked hands. It helped her to focus, “I really like you.”

“I like you too,” he said and she closed her eyes over it, shaking her head. 

“No, not like I would like a book,” she was glad her eyes were shut, because she could bet he was rolling his eyes in confusion. “Well, maybe a bit like I like a book, because I really like books.. and anyway, I ... ,” her eyes flung open again, when she felt his thumbs circle over the back of her hands. “This is nice.”

He shifted an inch, biting the inner of his cheeks, with one of his rare smiles on his face. “Clara.”

How ever it had happened, but he found his free hand raise and brushing a strand of hair behind her ear. Like earlier his legs, now it seemed his hands disobeyed him and had developed a life of their own. What was he doing? What did he think who he was? He didn’t deserve her. He only would disappoint her. 

She pulled at his hand, leaning into the touch of his fingertips, still in contact with her ear, slowly gliding down her jawline. Clara could see the hectic in his eyes, they moved from left to right and right to left, it sent out a warning she ignored. Instead she decided to go all in, going on her tip toes, pulling him in and he didn’t resist at first. 

There was a beat he couldn’t place in the first moment, till he realized it was his pacing heart. He likes her. He liked the evening, the odd dinner, the embarrassment at his charge. There are not many things he wants in life anymore, her visiting him in the morning for coffee for the rest of his life is now one of them. 

He can’t. Can’t do it. So he stepped back, her hand slipping out of his, earning a startled face filled with questions and insecurities. “Randall?”

There only would be disappointments. “I am sorry, I…”, he wanted to explain but he needs to run away, needs to go. “Goodnight Clara.”

He didn’t look back anymore and Clara found herself reach for thin air, hugging herself then, feeling his coat around her shoulder he had forgotten. 

Maybe it wasn’t Randall who was sad in the end. Clara was. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you guys still enjoy this story. I am happy over each of your comments!
> 
> Next chapter (12) will come out a bit shorter. If I can manage I'll post at the weekend and next Wednesday Chapter 13. But it depends on my progress in later chapters and I don't want to kill my beta off. So keep your hopes low.


	12. 12_A Phone Call (II)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Phone calls.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> This is a shorter chapter. Sorry, but there will come longer.

The next day was a Saturday and after the weekend there was Monday, which was a holiday, so Clara knew she wouldn’t see Randall till Tuesday.

After their little encounter she was quite a mess inside. Her thoughts circled around the moment by the door and the moment he had walked away without really explaining himself. On Saturday she tried to distract herself by doing some grocery shopping, some reading and cleaning the apartment. But not one single moment she was able to push the thoughts about him aside. She even found herself looking around for him in the store. Having little hope, he might would walk around the corner by the cereal section.

She slept restless and when it was Sunday, she found herself sitting on the couch, brooding with discontent and anger. Flipping her mobile phone around, she damned him, that he had no phone. How could someone had no cell phone these days? It was like he tried to keep the outside world away on purpose.

Then an idea came to her. Hadn’t he said, there was still lots of work to do for the yearly synopsis, till Tuesday? What would a man do, with no big social life, on a dizzy Sunday? Quickly she opened the laptop and googled the phone number of the department of communications. It was worth a try.

Grabbing for the receiver she dialled his number, “With a little bit of luck.”

\----------

He sat in his office. His actual plan was to stay at home, and had spent the weekend with grocery, reading a book, cleaning up a bit - and yes, he had stuck to the plan and had done everything on Saturday. He even had rearranged his suits four times just to be occupied. Busy in mind and body. Then had came the night, and he had found himself wide awake at midnight, in his thoughts he had played out the evening before. Clara laughing. Clara smiling. Clara joking and telling him stories. Clara and him, about to kiss.

It was all Clara in his head. Something he couldn’t allow. He never should have asked her out. What a stupid idea! He could have spared her and him much trouble. The embarrassment and the hurtful scene in front of her door. Him running away like a scared boy. That he had believed he wasn’t one. Where was his judgement? What had happened? And why had he been awake in the middle of the night, thinking, and spinning thoughts around Clara, when the right thing for him _was_ to leave her before she had kissed him, before _they_ had kissed, before everything would have changed.

There was too much past to have a good future with her. Why did this thought hurt? For what reason? Of course he knew, he simply didn’t allowed the knowledge to come through.

And when Randall had woken up in the morning, exhausted from the night, he had needed to do something to keep himself busy. Luckily there was enough work laying on his desk in the university. So he had ate a quick breakfast and had left, to bury himself in paper and work.

When the telephone rang he gave it a quizzical look. It rarely rang through the work hours, and it was a Sunday after all. He shook the feeling off and took up the phone. Surely someone who had dialled the wrong number.

“Hello?” There was a moment of silence in the line, but he could hear a breath, “hello?”

For some reason his voice had taken out all of her courage and her mind had went blank for a second, but she spoke up eventually, “Is it something I did _wrong_?”

“Clara,” he dropped the pen he was holding with his right hand.

Of course she had planed out the whole dialogue before calling - a dialogue she knew never would happen the way she wished for. She pressed back into the rest of her sofa, her knees under her chin. “Is it something _I_ did wrong?” she repeated, hoping for more than her name.

Randall inhaled a gulp of air, while watching his hand fiddling with the pen, “Clara, I…,” he not really wanted to have this conversation but he knew he owned it to her. “You did everything perfectly.”

Clara held her breath, biting her fingernails, “I don’t understand, Randall.”

His hand had found some papers he started to move around the corner of his desk, “It was a really nice evening, but,” he felt his lower lip shake for a second, “I think we shouldn’t do this any more.”

No, that was not the words she had rehearsed before her call, “I.. I still don’t understand.”

He felt miserable and what else he should feel. His fingertips pressed down into the tabletop, “I don’t want to disappoint your expectations.”

Her sarcastic chuckle came automatically and she needed two seconds to understand the deeper meaning, “My expectations?”

“Yes,” it was not a whisper but there was not much courage in it. How could she rip him off his self confidence like this? How was she able, to make him regret every word he had ever said to her. The good and the bad ones he just uttered.

“So, what are my expectations?” she asked bluntly and he hadn’t expected the question.

The paper laid exactly by the edge of the desk, when her question made his fingers dart and the papers fell down to the floor.

He watched them spread all over and he needed to close his eyes, “Sofia.”

He frowned, he knew, he had lost control over the conversation. From now one, it was going into undiscovered country.

Clara frowned too, unsure what he wanted to express. At least she remembered the name, she thought, “Your daughter?”

His hand had became a fist that he had placed by his lips, nagging at it, “She would be your age, if-”

“-So, you think I have daddy issues or something?” she snapped and it made him shift in his seat as if she had hit him physically. Sure something he may had deserved for the thought.

It didn’t stopped him from lying, “No! Of course not.”

“So why are you mentioning it than?” Not that she hadn’t recognized that he was a good few years older than her, but she hadn’t give damn about it. What for? And she had hoped, he wouldn’t give a damn too, because if he did, he never had asked her out on a date. Well, logic was nothing that really worked in such a situation.

“Clara, I could be your father,” it was the dullest statement he could give and he felt ashamed for it.

For a second, she thought about hanging up, “I know, it’s maybe a surprise, but I can assure you, you are not!”

Cheeky and bossy at the same time, it rose a smile to his lips, he didn’t knew he could possess in this moment.

“Are you laughing?”

The smile dropped immediately, “I don’t really know what you expect, Clara. I am not Daniel Pink.”

Now it was her, laughing, in disbelief, “Daniel Pink? What has Danny to do with it?”

“You… you dated him.”

Clara ruffled her long hair, huffing out in a try to understand his thoughts, “Yes, we had some dinners, but we never… he wasn’t my boyfriend. I told you all about it, have you forgotten?”

Sure, he was older, but, “No, I haven’t.”

Clara waited, giving him the chance to say something. Something else than platitudes and she was afraid he was like all the others. He kept silent, knowing he was out of arguments, she wouldn’t let him off the hook. She was too clever to let him go away with this _‘I am too old for you’_ thing, because obviously his behaviour was one of a boy, so quite too young for her maybe. _‘Shameful,’_ he thought.

“Do you really compare yourself with Danny?”

What had people with phones? Maybe it made things easier for them, not seeing the other person. He had his troubles with face to face discussions - when they were on a personal level but he had more trouble talking to her on the phone. “I don’t think this is a matter to discuss over the telephone.”

“Can I come over?” she asked faster as she had intended.

Breathing in very deep he answered, “Would it stop you, when I said no?”

“I would try to respect your wishes, Randall,” she was not an expert in answering questions in an eluding way, like he was, but she could play the game too. “I do care about you, you know?”

 _‘I care about you, too,’_ he wanted to say.

Instead, “I am here till three o'clock,” then he hung up.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for the comments you leave and sorry if i don't answer everyone, I appreciate every one of them and hope you leave many more! It keeps this project alive because I write it for you guys!  
> Also, you may want to check the tags again, I added something a few weeks ago. And I know myself, I never read tags twice usually.


	13. 13_Comfort Zone

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> When you leave your comfort zone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for still reading this! I know it is a really slow slow burn, but you will not regret it!

She could do two things. Stay at home and let the matter drop. Let Randall be Randall and forget about him. Forget about the date they had, about the nice talks they had and ignore the connection that was clearly there.

She was sure she hadn’t mistaken the signals. She might was not sure with other men, but here, with him, she was very sure. If she would stay home, not go for it, she knew it probably would end.

For some reason he wouldn’t find the strength to come to her, to tell her what was going on in his head. Maybe he would play the idea around, battle over it, and then - because he battled over it way too long - would drop the matter. File it under ‘ _to stupid to act_ ’.

Or she could stand up and drive over to the university and make him talk, make him care. Make the issue matter. Maybe that was what he needed, someone who would be brave enough to push him out of his comfort zone - what would mean that Clara had to leave her own comfort zone.

It was the vivid memory of her and him, standing in front of her door, his coat around her shoulders, his long fingers embraced by her small ones that made her come to the conclusion that he was worth it. Worth to try even if she would be heartbroken afterwards.

Because the bus didn’t drove as often as in the week she walked a few stations, till an almost empty bus finally came by. She was wearing his scarf and had his coat over her arms and found herself engulfing the heavy thing while staring into the nothingness as streets, people and houses passed by.

The university was less frequented, but still a lot of people were around. Mostly students, some teachers she knew from seeing. She gave a polite nod whenever she passed someone, hoping no one would dare to stop her.

She reached his door breathless, so fast she had climbed the stairs. Giving herself a moment or two to catch her breath, her cold fingers clutched into his coat. There was a certain nervousness spreading through her body. Who could blame her for it? Enough reasons there were that made her heart race and her fingers tremble. The biggest one in silver letters directly in front of her.

She knocked hard and didn’t really wait for an invitation, marching into the room with all the fake confidence she could bring up.

Randall sat at his desk, his hands clinging to the edges, while he stood up, watching her enter. It was Sunday and he was still wearing a suit. The only thing, that might suggested, that he was in some kind of weekend mode, was that he had taken off his jacket that was nowhere to be seen - it probably hung safely in his locker.

 _‘Does he have no jumpers?’_ the absurd and distracting thought flashed up in her head. _‘Has this man fallen out of his time zone?’_

Squeezing her eyes shut for a moment, she closed the door and noticed next that he looked very fine in his white shirt and the vest. He didn’t wear a belt but braces.

Pondering over the words she wanted to say, she looked down to the coat in her arms, presenting it to him with a short raise, “I thought you might want your coat back.”

His jaw clenched slightly while he watched her placing his coat over the sofa carefully and he could see that she not really wanted to let go off it. It was the only thing that had given her safety till now. He admired her - once again - for letting go of her safety net, facing him without a barrier. Wishing he would one day bring up the same strenght, he straighten his vest and smoothed down his tie - how could one like him, ever be worthy for her?

“Did you think I wouldn't come?” she finally spoke up after stepping away from the sofa back to the spot in the middle of the room. The spot he usually placed the stool when they enjoyed coffee.

He stepped aside his desk, one hand still touching it, as if he would lose balance when he would let go of it, “I have to admit, I hoped so, yes.”

Clara nodded, she could in fact understand him, she might would have hoped the same if the roles would have been reversed, “Why?”

As a journalist who had sometimes literally joggled with words, he found himself speechless. He couldn’t find the words. There was only a helpless inhalation followed by a surrendering exhalation.

“Are you afraid of me, Randall?”

“No, Clara,” he did let go of the desk. “It’s the situation. I am ... terrified of it.”

She tilted her head, her eyes taking him in, seeing his tall but slightly lanky figure shifting. On the way she had been afraid that he might would be stubborn and would put up a mask of harshness and indifference to scare her away - she was relieved it was the opposite she could read in his body language.

“Why?” she asked him softly.

“I could be-”

“Don’t say you could be my father, Randall, because we both know, you are not,” she gave him a helpless smile that should tell him that she was well aware of his fears. It wasn’t so that she had dated a lot older men and was somehow experienced in it. In fact, he was the first man who was more than 5 years apart from her.

Randall felt shameful. Since when had he started to give a thing about something society had planted into his head?

He doted at himself, his words not louder as usual but more precise, “What do you want from me, Clara? I am no... _boyfriend material_. I am not good at this. You saw how rubbish I am,” stained with a thick Scottish accent she had to acknowledge in a surprised eyebrow raise. ”We had dinner at a pizza take out!”

She smirked, “So what? I told you I enjoyed it and I have dated far worse.”

His mimic slipped for a moment. “I didn’t mean-”, her hands whirled around her as if she wanted to strangle the air for her stupidity. “I dare say, Randall, it was the best date I ever had. I really would like to repeat it,” and quickly added with a smirk. “Maybe not at a pizza take out. Chinese maybe?”

She made him nervous, and he didn’t know why. Not many people made him nervous. His hand reached for his glasses to correct its position. “Then tell me, what do you expect from me? Because I think you expected me to kiss you on Friday.”

“I didn’t expected it. I didn’t went on the date with you, expecting it to end in bed or something like that - when you want to suggest that,” she thought, biting her lips, looking at the papers that were still on the floor.

It nagged her and it amazed her that it nagged her more than him. Walking over to them to collect them from the floor, he did followed her with his eyes, but stayed still. “But when we stood by my door, I thought you would, and when you left in a hurry, I was confused,” she held out the papers to him.

Taking them slowly from her he subconsciously stacked them. “I ... I wanted. Then I thought it would lead to something else, and I thought, better to disappoint you at the beginning,” he placed the papers on his desk, “as in the end.”

She stepped closer. “There is no need to rush this. I will not drag you to the wedding chapel after one date.”

It made him smile, while his left thumb trailed over the base of his ring finger.

“It suits you,” she took one more step and stood then in front of him. “The smile. As I said it, you should do it more often,” she brought herself onto tip toes leaning forward.

She could sense that he stiffened and so she touched his arm softly, “Trust me,” with that she made him bow slightly and pressed a light kiss on his cheek.

When her lips touched his skin his eyes fell shut, and when she leaned back again, his hand dashed forward and grabbed her forearm.

For once there was no fear in his eyes, no concern, just this piercing stare of his grey green eyes. Then he blinked and the heated look had vanished, “It’s a while, someone has kissed me like this. And I honestly can’t remember when was the last time I have kissed a woman.”

Raising her hand toward his face to touch him at the spot she just had wetted with a kiss, she said, “Like I said, we don’t have to rush this, and believe me; kissing is like riding a bike.”

He frowned at her, not knowing what she meant, but finding her comparison almost adorable.

“You will remember when the time comes.”

His hand slowly brushed down her arm to her fingers where he held onto her, bringing both their hands back between them, “Thank you.”

Clara looked behind him, seeing the pile of work he had to do, and decided it might be the best to leave him alone. “I let you go. I held you back long enough.” Taking her hand out of his, she gave him a shy smile before stepping to the door. “I’ll see you maybe next week?”

He kept standing where he was and nodded, his eyes locked with hers, again with one of his rare smiles, “If I’m lucky.”

She couldn’t held the look of him, it was almost too much. The way he behaved, sometimes like a ghost, emerged from somewhere far away. Thrown into this world through some unknown force - unwillingly.

A shy shadow on the floors of the university - with these sad eyes, which seemed sometimes to be older than time itself. And then, there were this rare moments, when there was only a little shift in his look, in his posture and he became a wild animal, a predator. A panther, on silent paws, with a stare that would make everybody shudder. It made _her_ shudder. “Bye.”

She was almost out of the door and about to shut it close, when he stopped her, “Clara!”

He had taken a step forward, his hand grabbing the door handle, “Would you fancy having lunch with me on Wednesday? And dinner on Friday?”

She had turned around, placing one hand onto the door frame, “I really would love to do that,” a smile spread over her face. A smile he thought he could watch forever.

“Great,” he corrected his glasses once more. “Can I ask you for a favour?”

“Sure.”

“As the person who invites I should choose the restaurant, but as we have seen, I had trouble last time. So would you...maybe?”

She wanted to tell him, that she liked the little crinkles around his eyes which betrayed his amusement, but she knew it wasn’t the right time for it. “I would be delighted.”

He nodded in relief, “Wonderful. I am looking forward to it.”

It wasn’t by accident that he placed his hand for a brief moment over her hand by the door frame, and it wasn’t by accident, that Clara rose her index finger to touch him while he did so.

“Goodbye, Randall.”

He kept standing by the door and waited till she had vanished out of his view, his hand still by the spot, where hers had laid. “Goodbye, Clara.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay this is a shorter chapter and I know you guys want more and I promise I have already written chapter 14 to 16 (drafts) and these will be very long chapters. Things now slowly will start to move into the right place and I think there will be at least 20 chapters, maybe a bit more, so you guys know what awaits you.


	14. 14_A Lunch and a Letter

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> A lunch and a letter.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thank you all for your kind comments! Keep them coming, tell me what you think, when you have ideas, wishes for the end, don't hold back! Very, very slowly I build up the next big thing in this story, some may have vague ideas about it after this chapter.

On Wednesday at noon he walked down to her office, mentally smiling, that he could finally meet her again.

He had seen her the day before, only for a short moment when their paths had crossed in the hallway. They both had not much time and the only thing they had could do, was turn around for a short moment, exchanging coy smiles of adoration.

Randall wanted to take her out to lunch, to the restaurant he always went and hoped she had that much time at hand.

Walking down the stairs, he passed a door and found Claras office without a long search. He felt his nervousness in form of his heart, beating in his throat so vigorously that he loosened his tie a little bit.

He was just about to knock, when the door went wide open and he looked into familiar brown eyes, that were not Claras. The other man and he needed both a second till they recognized each other.

“Oh, Mister Brown!” Danny shook his head surprisingly, smiling at him.

“Mister … Pink,” Randall lifted one eyebrow at the young man. “Math department.”

“Correct,” Danny nodded and opened the door a bit more, and it gave the view free toward Clara’s desk. Randall was unsure how he should react in this moment. Especially because Danny gave him a smile that was not only polite but more like he now was aware of something Randall couldn’t yet understand. Like a joke he hadn’t heard yet.

Clara stood up from her desk, her eyes pacing between Danny and Randall.

“Mister Brown,” she croaked.

The way his name sounded made him aware that she hadn’t expected him to pick her up. He hadn’t asked her, had simply decided to spare her the way upstairs.

“Am I interrupting?” he asked politely, hoping he hadn’t done anything that would make her angry or embarrassed.

It was the way he glanced down to the floor, for a second, and it was the way one of his hands vanished in his pockets that made Clara realize, that he seemed to be confused and also afraid that something bad had happened because he had showed up without phoning her, what had led into the meet up with Danny.

“No, no,” she stepped forward, waving him inside. “I was telling Mister Pink right now that I can’t join him for lunch today.”

Randall looked at Danny who smirked a tick to mischievous in his eyes.

“She told me, she had found something better,” Danny used the chance to eye the head of communications from tip to toe, then he turned to Clara. “Or shall I say someone better?”

“I beg you pardon?” Randall interrupted before she could answer, his tone strict enough to make clear he wouldn’t allow the man jokes about his person and how he stood to Clara.

Danny maybe looked like a young, inexperienced boy who could be frighten easily, but he was not and he told the older man in front of him this with a mocking smirk, “A joke, Mister Brown,” he turned one last time to Clara with a bright grin and a certain warmth in his eyes he only had for close friends. “That explains the scarf, I guess.”

Clara made a gaffing face, but Danny just winked at her - they would talk about this later. “I maybe look like it, but I am not dense or something,” he said more into the direction of Randall and then left.

“I am sorry!” Clara finally found words. “I...I..,” and there she lost them again.

They both stood by the half open door, the chatter from students echoing through the air, the sound of an arriving elevator, the bell of the university for twelve o’clock and the roaring silence between Clara and Randall.

“I should have called, to tell you I will pick you up,” he said unsure if it was what he really wanted to say.

Was he a secret and so not allowed to come by her office? Only she to his, because it was the last on upstairs in the corner, where it was unlikely to run into Daniel Pink or others? He was about to apologize and he didn’t know why and it started to taste bitter.

Clara proved him wrong in his believes - she was ashamed, “Don’t start with this, it’s ridiculous. It was surprising, that’s all. There are no secrets. We go to a lunch, not to…,” she tried to come up with a good joke, that didn’t built up in her head.

“...church?” Randall lowered his chin, eyeing her over his glasses while she tried to understand.

“What would we do in a church? Oh! Very funny!” she slapped him softly on his arm and then went to her locker to get her coat. “All I wanted to say is, I am not ashamed, when you think this.”

“I don’t want you to be in trouble with Mister Pink, that is all.”

“I am not in trouble with Mister Pink, and I think I can join anyone for lunch I like. He came by and asked me to go with him, I declined him, you showed up, awkwardness ensured and now we having a discussion about secret meetings - at least that what it feels like,” she spilled out hectically, wrapping his scarf around her neck.

He kept quiet for a moment, watching her, till she was about to ask him, if anything was wrong, “It’s good to see you.”

Clara blushed, over all the play that had happened in her office, she had forgotten that she had been excited about this lunch all day long, “It’s good to see you too.”

There he stood, and he could have stood there all the lunch time, looking at her. It would have been enough for him, being in her presence, also he knew what that would make him look like, “It’s a twenty minutes walk, but I promise it’s worth it. Do you have the time for it?”

“Yes, I have no more lectures till two o’clock. Where are we going?”

They both left her office, down the stairs toward the exit. Randall told her about the little restaurant he had discovered a few years ago. It was cold outside but the sun was shining and so it was a beautiful day and a nice walk they both shared.

They chatted about each of their projects they had in class. About the interviews and when Randall told her, that he had told Freddy about the missing books in the library, she stopped so sudden, that it took him three meters to realized that he was walking without his companion.

“No, you didn’t!”

“Shouldn’t I have?”

“Well, I know it seems to be true, but … I don’t know, it sounds more like a joke than something serious,” she caught up with him.

“Mister Lyon seemed rather keen about the topic,” Randall explained while they walked on. “I saw no reason in stopping him. If it’s a joke, he will discover it by himself.”

Clara eyed him from the corner of her eye while they walked down the road to find out if he was making a joke - with her or with Freddy - but he showed no real reaction after that anymore, so she let the matter drop in her head.

They arrived at the restaurant and Randall held the door open for her. When they both had entered the room, the waitress approached them and the way they both exchanged their polite _‘Hellos’_ Clara knew he was well known by the woman.

“Where do you want to sit?” Randall asked her and Clara chose a table for four across the window. Not many people were there so there was no need in taking one of the smaller ones.

“What do you recommend?” Clara opened the card and browsed more absently through it.

“They have a great chicken salad with fresh made bread and the apple pie is absolutely delicious,” he told her, shoving the sugar sprinkler to the left of the card holder and the salt and pepper to the right. “I think I’ll take some of the mushroom risotto, it’s very good too.”

Clara looked in thoughts at the waitress, who had came to the table to ask for their orders. She was curious about both of the meals and was almost about to suggest to share, but she knew there were people who didn’t like that and she couldn’t tell if Randall was that kind of person. Then she remembered the Jammie Dodgers and how they had shared them. So she gave it a try, when he spoke up at the same time;

“We could share.”

They both blushed. “Half - half?” Clara asked only to be sure.

“If that is okay for you?” Randall’s fingers touched the sugar sprinkler again.

In the end they ordered the risotto and the salad with two pieces of apple pie and Clara couldn’t overlook that the waitress smiled a tick too bright while writing down the order.

Not long after that observation the woman came to the table to serve them both the apple pie they had ordered as dessert. Randall chose that moment to excuse himself to the restroom.

The waitress placed the two plates onto the table and was already about to leave when she changed her mind and turned back to Clara.

“I know it is none of my business,” she smiled unsure how Clara would react. “But I am glad he is finally here with someone.”

“What do you mean?”

“You must know, he comes here quite often, two or three times a week and he always sits by himself - there by the window and... ,” the woman knew she might better stop but Clara gave her an encouraging nod. “Well, he always looks so stern and not that I know him very good - we only talk the usual pleasantries between customer and waitress, but I always sensed that he was alone - somehow.”

“Alone?”

“Yes, I am a waitress for years now. People come and go but some come again and again and … I see when someone is alone. Not _lonely_ , but alone, it’s kind of complicated to explain it. Maybe it was the way he always looked out of the window, watching the people passing by,” Clara watched out of the window, noticing the float of people passing the window. “Since you both came in, he … he had only eyes for you.”

They both blushed over the comment. “We are just colleagues,” Clara said quickly, but added, “yet.”

The waitress smiled over that, feeling she had crossed a barrier she might shouldn’t have. Now it was done, she decided to go the way to the end, “Whatever it is, and I shouldn’t care, but today was the first time in three years I have seen him smile - really smile. And obviously he likes you.”

Clara felt the need to ask the woman more questions and it was good that Randall chose this moment to come back from the restroom, because she felt it wouldn’t have been right to talk behind his back with a stranger. The waitress mumbled some apologies to Clara and hurried then back behind the counter.

He eyed first the waitress, then Clara, “Something wrong?”

“No, no,” she smiled, reaching for the fork and her plate. “I complimented the apple pie, that’s all,”

Randall’s head tilted just the slightest, while his eyes glanced for the fraction of a second down to the apple pie. “Already?”

The pie was untouched. He knew the two had maybe talked about him. No wonder, taking the fact, that the waitress knew him from seeing and he always had considered her smart and vigilant. After years of coming here alone, she had counted one and one together the moment he and Clara had entered the place. Not only Clara had noticed the smile on her lips while taking the order earlier. “It not only looks good, it also tastes good,” he added after a few seconds and took a quick bite to hide an amused expression.

After an hour they return to the university and Clara asked him again about Paris, and he shook his head over the questions and was considering for a moment if she wanted to mock him about his time in he had obviously never used for sightseeing and exploring. A look into her eyes told him about her earnest curiosity about Paris, like he was the only one she ever knew who had seen the city, so she tried to extract every information about it from him.

“So it’s not about me, it’s all about Paris, isn’t it?” he stopped by the large staircase, placing his gloved hand on the handrail, that goes up to the main entrance.

Clara stumbled for a moment over his remark, not sure if he was miffed by her comment or if he was joking. His expression told her nothing about it. She should have made a joke, or gave him a witty answer, but she was thrown back by his comment into self-doubts and forgot about the waitress - a stranger - who had confirmed her impression that Randall was interested in her.

“I am… curious, that is all,” she spat out in stress and doubt and then she did the most ridiculous thing ever, by turning around to walk away and in her head it yelled _‘why are you doing this’_ , but once done, she couldn’t perceive her mistake.

Now it was Randall who stumbled, his hand clinged to the handrail, his knuckles got white under his gloves but he could let go of it before she was gone. With long strides he caught up with her, grabbing her hand, “Clara! I didn’t mean … I was joking.”

She was glad he stopped her, but now she felt even more ridiculous and idiotic, “I can’t read you.”

He didn’t let got of her hand, even when two students pass them, “You can and you know it. You are just too terrified.”

That made her angry for whatever reason, “And how do you know this?”

He let go of her hand, sparing himself the disappointment of her retreating her hand from him, “Because I am too.”

His expression was soft and his eyes burned into her and all she could do was sighing. “What a fuss!” she laughed. “Much ado about nothing.”

That made him raise an eyebrow, and he thought about something cheeky to say, but she cut him off, before he got a chance, “No, I didn’t used Shakespeare to proof I know my subject.”

“You did use it to impress me?” he accepted her offer for a little banter quicker as he thought he should.

“Oh, you are…!” she rolled with her eyes and walked on - it was cold and time was short.

“Will you come for coffee tomorrow morning?” he asked her in the hall, following her to the mail office.

She went to her compartment and grabbed for the mail. So did Randall - a large pile of papers and newspapers. He was closer to the door and walked quickly outside, the narrow room not only gave him an uncomfortable feeling and they were not the only one checking for the mail, so it was crowded. When he turned away from his compartment Clara could see something slip out of the pile of papers and it was clearly a letter that dropped onto the floor, before sliding directly in front of her feet.

Bending down she took it up, to carry it out for him, but like it was in such situations, her sight fell onto the sender and onto the letter in generals. Longhand written, dark blue ink. Something personal, something important personal. Clara read the name of the sender a few times, knowing she shouldn’t but she couldn’t help herself, it simply happened. Lix Storm. She never had heard of someone with that name. The other thing she wondered about was, that it was clearly a personal letter, directed to his work place. What for?

“Randall!” she called, shaking her head. “You dropped something.”

He looked down to her hand, holding out the letter to her. Of course, he had forgotten, it was Wednesday. A few seconds went by without him reacting, reality had hit him to harsh. Finally he grabbed for it, looking in Clara’s eyes if she had read the words on the paper. She made no attempt to hide anything. She had read and he couldn’t blame her, that were things people did without bad intention.

“Thank you,” he mumbled, unsure what to do with it he shoved it into the pocket of his coat. “A letter. From a ... friend.”

A moment of silence arose. Clara felt as if he wanted to add something, but when nothing else came, she nodded and smiled. “So tomorrow? Coffee? Reciting some sonnets maybe?”

There she noticed the importance of the letter, because he was gone in his thoughts, somewhere else and no more with her, “Yes. Sure. Sonnets.” He smirked without meaning it and was almost gone, when he turned around once more. “Sorry, how impolite of me. It’s just.. I didn’t expected the letter.”

“It’s fine.”

“I had a lovely lunch, and I hope you are still with me on friday.”

Self-doubts. Everywhere. Like pollen.

“I know a nice restaurant. Mancinis. Ever heard of it?”

“Would it surprise you, when i say no?”

“Not really,” she giggled. “I have to go, thanks for the lunch. I’ll see you tomorrow?”

“For the sonnets, yes,” he bowed slightly and when she had turned around the corner his hand found the letter again.

He was a liar and he felt like one. He should have said something, she had given him the chance for it. He was a fool, he knew this. Maybe he had never learned not to be one.

He was afraid because he knew he would ruin it. That’s what he does, what he always did. With Lix and with Sofia.

He would with Clara, it was like faith. He should have stopped, but he couldn’t.

He not only never had learned not to be a fool, he also never had learned to stop himself hurting others.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some maybe have noted, this and the last chapter were not "beta-ed". My beta is very busy these days, but I hope I could sort out some harsh mistakes by re-reading it a few times.


	15. 15_It's okay to be afraid

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Classical dinner.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As promised, this is a longer chapter and I had to break the whole thing in two parts because it was so long. So you can look forward to Chapter 16, what will be a longer one too. I want to say, that I touch Randall's OCD here, and I hope I don't made it look ridiculous and don't want to offend anyone with OCD. In my personal headcanon Randall's OCD is only minor.

They have coffee on Thursday in the morning. Clara showing up with two paper mugs and they have just a lovely time. He was wearing a light grey suit with a light brown tie and she was awestruck how very well he always looks in his suits. Again, he had brought the Jammie Dodgers, and again he sat on his chair in front of her while she sat on his sofa.

They chatted about this and that, and then he raised a finger, telling her he had brought her something from home. He went over to his bag and pulled out a book. A paperback, a bit worn off, but still in good condition. He held it out to her and she thought it didn't look like a book Randall would have, because of its condition. All his books looked like new, well most did.

“Paris?” she only said, eyeing the thing in her hands, her fingers trailing over the cover, that showed - of course - the Eiffel Tower. But it was an old picture of it and it was an evident that the book was not new, not even only from last season. The thing had been occupied for a few years, maybe a decade, she couldn’t tell without opening it up, to check for the print date. It was a travel guide for Paris.

“Yes, I found it yesterday on my way home. There is an antiquarian bookshop not far from my apartment, and that one was laying in the shop window,” he explained a bit nervous.

He didn’t tell her, that he had passed the shop and the book in the window quite a lot in the last days, always thinking of buying it, but never had found the courage to do so till yesterday. First he thought it was a bit early for a present because they didn’t know each other that much and he didn’t wanted to scare her off, make her feel, that she would own him something.

The next was, he knew that the “ _traveling_ ” was a sensitive topic for her. He didn’t wanted to look like - probably one of many people she had met - that he wanted her to push to something, like _‘now go, you still young, just do it’._

She eyed him and he sensed that she was not sure how to take it, so he quickly went on, “It’s from 1960, actually, so you might not want to rely on it alone when you go to Paris one day,” she checked the date and he was right. 

The fact made her smirk but also confused her more, but she could feel he had a reason behind all that and kept quiet. “I know you want to travel, I can see it in you, but it is not a shame not to travel. Some people travel by reading books, or listening to music or going to the opera, and they see more than people who travel - who actually go to places. And I think, I am the perfect example for it. I was in Paris, and I never saw anything,” he took the book out of her hand again, opened it, and then gave it back to her. It was a side about the Louvre, with a picture of the _Mona Lisa,_ about art and tips when to go to the Louvre. “Do you think, I ever came up with the idea of going there - and I was there in the Louvre - to watch the Mona Lisa? I didn’t, and it never occurred to me that I should have done it till you asked me all this questions. Traveling is not traveling.”

“So, this present is not about telling me to go traveling?” she asked slowly.

“No, it’s the intention of lighting up a spark inside you,” he turned his head and watched out of the window for a second, gathering some thoughts. “When you want people to sail the sea, you not going to show them how to build a boat, you arouse their feeling for discovery,” he smiled and his hands came up into the air, starting to gesture around.”

“And personally I think a lot of people told you, to go travel, because it never has been easier in this time. They told you, that it is cheap and a flight is quickly booked and that Paris has great sights but they never told you about the spirit of Paris,” he cocks an eyebrow, when seeing approval light up in her face. “About a myth and a tale that comes with it. About the underground, for example, the catacombs where you can get lost if you go alone.”

“About Paris in spring, when the trees around the Champs-Elysees start to bloom and everything looks like orange and pink and heart warming or the fruit market, where you can buy exotic fruits and flowers and you can smell this mixture of everything and it is refreshing and nice,” he needed to breath in, because all the words had spilled out so fast and with and excitement Clara didn’t know he could inhabit.

“And I read all this in this book, and I regret I didn’t know this back when I was there, and I regret I never tried to discover Paris. And actually I thought, it is a lovely gift.”

Clara opened the book somewhere in the middle, raised it to her face and buried her nose in the paper.

Randall watched her eyes fall close for a moment, while she breathed in the scent of long times gone. He knew some people did this with books, he only never had met anyone who did this.

The scent of the book was typical for old books, Clara thought. “Yeah, definitely 1960,” she smirked, turning around some pages. “It really is a lovely gift. Thank you so much and thank you even more for the reason to give it to me.” She then turned to the first page, discovering a little handwritten note.

_‘When you travel, I hope you will see wonders.’ Randall_

He blushed when he saw that she read his inscription. The words of him immortalized into the page made her heart swell and beat hard, “I hope so too.”

He only nodded, the corners of his mouth darting upwards only for short moment then he hid himself again by drinking from his coffee. Detaining his mouth from speaking up, from telling her, that, when she would go to Paris, that she could send him a postcard, tell him about her discoveries he never had made. What sentimental thing to say, he thought.

They carried on drinking and talking and Clara kept the whole time the book on her lap, on hand always on the cover, and Randall saw this, and asked if there was a deeper meaning or just a habit. He kept that to himself too.

Then the clock came close to eight and they both had business to do.

“Do we see each other before tomorrow evening?” Clara went to the door, followed by Randall.

“I have some talks with the headmaster and my students tomorrow, so it is basically all conference tomorrow,” he explained. “I am here till five or six, maybe…”

She knew he didn’t know how to say it, how to invite her a second time in one day over to his office, “Yes, maybe,” before she left the room, she quickly turned around and placed a short kiss on his cheek. “Thank you for the guide.”

“M-my pleasure,” he stumbled, with a mixture of shock, surprise and enjoyment. “Bye.”

“Bye.”

 

 

The day went by in a blink for Clara. She carried the travel guide around all day, and always placed it in plain sight on her desk while she gave her classes. It was like a talisman for the day and every time her eye fell on it, a joyful feeling spread inside her heart.

Once she caught herself looking at the cover, and imagined herself visiting Paris, standing in front of the Eiffel Tower and it made her blush when she thought about asking Randall to come with her. She didn’t know where the thought came from and if she should really consider asking him. Not in a serious way, more like joking, in case he would be irritated by her offer, so there was still a chance to say; _“Ah you know, just a joke. I am able to go alone.”_

The longer she thought about it, the more she felt foolish about asking him or not. She would have had no problem to ask Danny and his girlfriend to come alonge. Why felt she already nervous and unsure only by considering to ask Randall? Her students looked at her because she had stopped mid sentence, so she pushed the thought aside and carried on.

Clara’s teaching day ended at 3:30 pm and after she had looked over some essays in her office, she decided around five to call it a day, remembering the words of Randall, that he possibly would be still in his office. Without thinking too much she decided to say a short “ _goodnight_ ” to him.

When she came to his door, it was ajar and she glanced around if she would see someone. With a soft knock she pushed the door open with two fingers, “Randall?”

The office was empty, but the lamp in the corner of his office was on, so she expected him to be somewhere on the floor, maybe using the copy machine. For a moment she was unsure what to do, and then decided she would wait a few minutes inside. Surely he would come back any second.

Strolling inside, she noticed his odor hanging in the room. That told her, he wasn’t long gone. It was one of her little talents, as she called it. When she really was interested in someone, she seemed to be able to literally smell the other person over a short distance, without the person being there. Smiling over it, she walked up to his desk to gather a pen and a paper. In case he wouldn’t show up, she would leave him a short message. Walking around the desk she sat herself down, admiring the tidiness of his desk, talking a pen from the side of his desk pad, hoping not to move too much while doing so. When her hand reached over to the notepads, she noticed something. A piece of paper - just a corner of it - under some other papers, not really matching in its environment. Her curiosity drove her to lift up the other papers and their she recognized the thing again. It was the letter that she had given to him the day before, when it had fallen down on the ground. It had been opened, and she immediately damned herself, letting go of the papers, to cover it up again - not without reading over the name of the sender again.

A strange feeling suddenly nagged at the back of her head. Frowning, chewing on the inside of her cheeks, the clearing of a throat startled her and brought her back.

“Oh gosh,” she reached for her chest. “You startled me.”

Randall stood by the door, watching her, “Sorry.”

They locked eyes for a moment and she could see that he was asking himself why she sat in his office, more precisely in his chair and he could see that she asked herself how long he had already standing there before making himself noticeable.

Clara grasped that it was her turn to explain her doing and her presence in his personal spot, “I am sorry. I was about to leave for home, and thought you maybe would be still here. The door was ajar, so I figured you maybe just out for a minute,” she glanced down to the pen in her hand. “I was about to leave you a short message that I was here. Saying goodnight.” She crumpled the post-it together in her hand and placed the pen carefully back to it’s original spot and then rose up from the stool. “I am sorry, I didn’t want to invade your .. your desk or something.”

“It’s okay,” he came closer aside from the desk, giving it a short glance. “I was just surprised to find someone in here. I admit a pleasant surprise. How was your day?”

“Busy,” she sighed, tapping on top of her bag. “I have five more essays to go through till tomorrow, but it was a nice day. I have your book with me and will try to peek into it tonight. And you?”

“Horrible day with too much talking and conferences,” he shoved one of his hands into his pockets, the other trailing along the edge of his desk. “Ah, and Freddy told me, to tell you, that he believes you.”

“Believes me?”

“About the missing books,” he tilted his head with a smile, telling her with it that he was not sure about it himself. “He said he had done some investigations and will do some further.”

Clara tried to suppress a smile, unsure what to think about it, “Does he really?”

“Let him,” Randall only stated and walked around his desk. “Tomorrow?”

“Yes! I made reservations and we have a table at eight,” Clara beamed at him. “I have heard they have excellent food.”

“I am looking forward to it.”

###

Clara had told Randall they should meet by his apartment, because the restaurant was only a mile away from where he lived and he had agreed.

When he had came down to the street he needed a moment to find his speech again. She wore a purple dress and a cream coloured coat - hair open, hanging smoothly around her face and he was stunned by her beauty.

“Speechless?” she teased, blushing a bit, seeing his looks wander over her.

He pulled his coat tight around him, because the wind was going cold, “I tried to guess the time you have spent this time for choosing a dress. In case it was very long, I have to say it was worth it,” he came to her, holding out his arm. “You look very beautiful, Miss Oswald.”

“Thank you, Mister Brown” she bumped her shoulder against his. “I shouldn’t tell you, but it’s a new dress. Saw it a couple of days ago, and bought it. Glad you like it. How many ties did you try on before you settled onto this?” she stopped for a moment, to reach for his tie - dark red with lighter dots on it.

Gazing down at her, he waited for her to look at him, “Four.”

She smirked and then they moved on, without talking much. Clara enjoyed being by his side, linked with his arm. The cold weather was a good excuse for keeping close to him.

The restaurant was easy to find and the table Clara had reserved was in a not too busy corner of the room. Randall held out the stool for her and then he sat down across from her on the not too big table.

After a minute the waiter approached them to ask what they wanted to drink.

Clara rubbed her hands together, thinking, “Do you have a nice not too sweet red wine you can recommend?”

“We have a very good 2013 Merlot, lovely and smooth, with juicy plum and blackberry,” the waiter suggested with a smile.

“Sounds nice, I’ll take one glass please,” after that both, the waiter and Clara turn to Randall.

“And you Sir? Can I give you any wine suggestions?”

Randall swallowed, eyeing first the waiter, then Clara. Their last dinner had preserved him from his outing, but not this time. He took it gracefully. “No, thank you. I’ll … take a glass of water, please.”

Clara looked at him in irritation, unsure what to say. Not that she minded, that he didn’t wanted to drink alcohol, his hesitation in the order, just made her frown and she tried hastily to come up if there was a deeper reason behind it or only a mood.

He saw her thinking and wanted to spare her the embarrassment and added, “I don’t drink,” then he turned toward the waiter, repeating with enforce, “Water, please.”

The man nodded, it was not him to judge, “Yes, of course. Red wine for the lady and water for the gentleman.”

He bowed down an inch, before turning around and was about to go, when Clara stopped him.

“Wait! Please,” her eyes were fixed on Randall who had rose an eyebrow, curious what she would do. “You know what?”

“No, ma’am.”

She winked at Randall and turned back to the waiter, “Cancel the wine.”

It was not want he wanted her to do. He felt the need to insist, “No, Clara you-”

Without looking, without even thinking, she placed her hand over his, to tell him, she was fine, she had no problem with it. It was her way of telling him, that she understood and that he had his reasons, and that these reasons were important to her.

Randall found himself staring down at their hands. Her warm palm rested in ease over the back of his hand, her short fingers lightly spun around it. She was still in conversation with the waiter, about blackberry juice she wanted to have, but he was not really listening. The heat that crawled up his forearm caused by her touch distracted him, the notion that there was no need for her hand to be there any longer, caused his heart to quicken his rate.

“Blackberry juice, it is, Ma’am,” the waiter nodded and added after a tilt of her head a bit amused. “In a wine glass.”

“Great!”

Clara turned back to Randall, who quickly broke away with his eyes from their hands and looked at her. She had seen it of course. Looking down and only there she realized, that she hadn’t taken away her hand yet. She removed her hand and he gave her a look, she couldn’t place. His hand lay there for another second, then he took it away to bring them to the cutlery. Shoving them up and down till he felt fine with the position they were in.

Clara watched his behaviour, still feeling the echo of his warm hand in her palm. “You like to have everything in order, do you?”

They both rose their heads, breaking away with their eyes from the cutlery. For a few seconds a comforting silence arose between them. He knew since a while that they had to touch the topic earlier or later. It wasn’t like she hadn’t noticed before and it wasn’t like it was assessable.

He flattened the table napkin in front of him with both his hands, “I have to admit, it is a little _quirk_ of mine. Having things in order, seeing straight lines comforts me. It does since I can think. Sometimes it’s a stronger need and sometimes not. I learned to deal with it, it doesn’t hurt anyone,” he paused, looking at her, reading in her what she thought about his confession. “On the other side, the world in which we live is in chaos enough, so.”

“It is. The world I mean,” Clara looked down her hands, finding them flatten her own napkin and quickly took her hands away from it.

When the waiter brought them their drinks, they clinked their glasses together and Clara watched Randall over the rim of her fake wine, nipping at his water. She simply needed to know. “Can I ask you a question?”

He glanced at the water in his hands, “I stopped around fifteen years ago.” He leaned back on arm crossed over his middle, the other rested on it, his thumb rubbing over the skin of his lips. His teeth nibbling at the edge of it. “Before I became the Head of News for the Hour, and way before I was in Paris, I spent my time as a young, eager journalist in Croatia.”

“In Croatia?” Clara asked, sensing what he would tell her next. “When the war was?”

“Yes, from 1992 to 1993. We were several journalists and media people, and we shared rooms in some kind of media camp, and in the evening people met up, from exhausting and terrifying days, and the only thing you could do was to drink. So we drank and drank and drank. When I left Croatia I left the land behind me, but I took the habit of drinking with me, till one of my supervisors in a new job I took, looked at me once and told me _“You are an alcoholic”_. A lot of people there had participated in some prominent crises, so I was in good company, he had told me,” he nipped again from his water. “So I stopped.”

“You not stopped because you wanted, right?”

“No, I stopped because I needed. Because I was on a path of self destruction. It came to me one day, that I could go on like this, and die before I get fifty, or I stop and face my fears and live maybe a bit longer.”

“You obviously went for the last,” she smiled encouraging at him, knowing it was surely not easy to tell her about this all.

“I am not thinking about taking a drink anymore, Clara. In case you are worried I could fall back in old habits,” he placed his hands on the table, drumming soundless onto it. “I have my tics. I replaced one obsession with another.”

After that they ordered the food and enjoyed a nice dinner without touching the topic again, only after the desert, Clara wielded the rest of her juice in her wine glass around, her mind busy with his words he had said earlier. About Croatia - a whole story by itself - about the drinking, about facing his fears. She knew this sentence wouldn’t let go of her for a while, so Clara decided she could ask him just as now, instead of brooding over it for days or even weeks in hope a good moment would show up to do so.

“So, how did it went? Facing your fears?”

“May I ask, for what reason you are asking?”

“Looking for advice maybe?”

“What indicates, you have fears to face?”

“Haven’t we all?” her hands were folding the napkin slowly together, her eyes stared at the candle in the middle, not seeing it. Her glance was empty, caught somewhere in the past for a moment. “So, how did it went?”

“The thing about fears is, that you never run out of them,” his hand landed onto the table, only an inch apart from hers. “There are big ones, and small ones. Ridiculous ones.” There two of his fingers rose, slowly reaching out to her hand.

They lingered there, without touching and Clara watched him and his fingers and he knew she saw. “Small gestures, immense fear and overthinking. Fear will be always there. Sometimes you face it gracefully and win and sometimes,” his fingers dropped in front of her hand without having her touched, “you are too frightened and lose.”

Clara surveyed him, “You don’t look like a frightened man to me.”

“One is always going to be afraid, even if one learns to hide it. We are all afraid. It’s like.. a constant companion.”

“Personally I think it is okay to be afraid,” her index finger brushes against the tips of his. “When you are clever and strong, fear doesn’t have to make you cruel or cowardly, it can make you kind.” Her hand slid over his, cupping the back of his hand. “Fear makes companions of us all.”

Her words touched him deep inside and he was so distracted from his fear, that his hand turned around and his long fingers embraced her hand.

“Have you stolen this out of a book, too?” he asked with a boyish look.

“No,” she thought about it with the same expression as his. “I hope not. No, I think you can mark that one as an _‘Oswald quotation_. Well, you helped a little bit.”

“Fear makes companions of us all,” he repeated slowly, half a whisper. “Can I have _that one_ on a kitchen towel?”

They got disturbed by the waiter who wanted to know if everything was alright. It made them take their hands from the table, as two teenagers caught by their parents. Randall negated and ordered the bill to pay it.

When they left the restaurant it was short before 11 o’clock and Randall felt that the evening was about to end. Some new expression must have befallen his face, because Clara reached out to him, after he had held the door open for her, “Penny for your thoughts?”

He chuckled, scratching his left ear, “I thought about your citation. It’s a good one, it’s true, but hard to achieve.”

“The good things we want to achieve are mostly never the easy ones.”

She had her doubts. About him, about her feelings for him. She was afraid, like he was. Afraid of rejection, afraid of disappointment, afraid of saying something stupid and she was unable to ask him if he was afraid of the same things. She knew not much about him, except of Sofia she knew nothing else of his personal past. Who was the mother, was she still alive? What had let to Sofias dead? Clara knew she should ask him, but to where would it lead?

There was a awareness inside of her that told her, that the answers would lead to more questions and to a complicated structure hard to understand.

Easy to collapse, and when it would, it was her fear it would bring them both down.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this chapter and I am sure you have noticed I recited a bit from Doctor Who (Listen). I also touched Randall's past alcoholism. For everyone who hasn't seen The Hour, it is suggested there, that he was indeed once an alcoholic.


	16. 16_I remember now

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They shared dinner. Will Randall let Clara go?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay people, I think, this is the chapter you all waited for. After 16 chapters we now get "close".

“I’ll get us a cab and then bring you home,” Randall pulled his coat tighter, because the wind was still going harsh and cold.

“No,” Clara insisted and earned a surprising look from him, as if he had misheard something. “No, really. I’ll guide you home, you live around the corner.”

Randall shook his head and was dumbstruck over her offer. Clara snickered, “What? Never been guided home by a woman?”

“Never before, and I have to admit, I should insist on bringing _you_ home,” Randall tucked around his coat absent minded while processing Clara’s idea.

“It’s only fifteen minutes to your apartment, I can take a cab from there. It’s nonsense to bring me home, it would take you over an hour til you would be back home. And it's freezing cold. Come on!” she grabbed for his arm and gestured down the street.

Randall didn’t move at first, “Clara Oswald, you are quite impossible, do you know that?”

“I am simply practical,” she smirked at him. “So?”

“Your word is my command,” he bowed slightly, placed his gloved hand over hers and walked with her down the street. He could feel her tighten her grip and lean into him and it made the evening perfect for him. 

Most of the way they walked in silence, enjoying the presence of the other.

When they reached the entrance door to his apartment complex, Clara let go of Randall’s arm.

“Well, then,” she started unsure how to end the evening - knowing she wasn’t ready to leave. Fumbling with her gloves around her fingers.

“Well,” he watched her, feeling exactly the same. “It has been a beautiful evening. Thank you.”

“No, thank you,” she said. “It was a wonderful evening. I hope you liked the restaurant.”

“I missed the pizza take out just a little bit,” he covered his smile with his hands and he earned a smug smile from her. “No, it was perfect. Everything was perfect. The food, the location and most of all you. And I still think you shouldn’t go home alone. I’ll bring you!”

Clara needed to stop him in his movement forward, that brought them now closer together, “It’s stupid!”

“It’s eleven o’clock at night, it’s dark and bitter cold!” he insisted. “And it’s not stupid.”

She placed her hands onto his arms, “I’ll take a cab,” and shoved him softly back to his door.

“Are you sure?” 

“Yes.”

He considered her half an eternity and then nodded. Clara was no one who gave up easily and all his argument about being a gentleman and guarding her home because of her safety she would brush away with a speech about being able to look after herself. “For the protocol, I have insisted.”

“For the protocol, I know,” she smiled gently at him, closed the gap between them and pressed a light kiss on his cheek. “Thank you for the evening, Randall. Have a good night.”

There was so much he wanted to say, but nothing came over his lips and he watched her turn around and slowly walk off. 

No, that was not how it was supposed to end, he thought, “Clara! Stop!” he came after her. “I am not letting you go. There is no cab around. Come upstairs. Drink some warm tea and we’ll call a cab from there,” he held out his hand and Clara smiled at his serious look and the soft eyes behind his glasses. “And don’t even argue.”

“You win,” she grabbed his hand and he led her quickly to the door into the warmth. 

When they entered his apartment, he took her coat from her and hanged it up. Then he hanged up his own and she waited patiently for him to show her the way to the living room. She was rather curious how he lived and how everything looked. 

“This way,” he pointed with his hand down the floor to a glass door. 

His apartment was bigger as hers, the floor was wide and not so narrow as her own. His livingroom was double as big as hers, one side completely covered with bookshelves and all filled up till under the roof. It must be a couple hundred books, she guessed. One shelf was filled with old records aside the record player itself. At the other side was a longer sideboard, with some decoration, a brown wooden box, some personal items and a few more books - probably the one he was reading right now. 

His telly stood in front of an old brown leather couch and a compatible armchair, with a small table in the middle - on it newspapers. Everything looked very clean - and she hadn’t expected anything else. Lot’s of brown tones and less jumble what one horded over the years. A few art pieces, some nice pictures and paintings at the wall. 

“Do you make your deductions?” he watched her observe the room.

She glanced quickly down to the floor, “Yes indeed, I do. I am sorry.”

“No, no,” he smiled. “Go ahead. It’s natural. Looking around. You can do that.”

“You have a lot of books!” she pointed toward the shelves and walked along them, her head tilted so she could read the titles. Books about journalism, media strategy, classics, crime, history and all sorts of interesting stuff. “You have your own library here. One might think, _you_ are stealing the books from the university!”

She eyed him, a bit proud to come up with the joke, when she noticed his face didn’t made any reaction about finding it funny. Instead it became more severe. “Well…”

“What? Wait…,” she frowned, eyeing the books for a second. “No, you don’t.”

How could he still stand, he asked himself, knowing his heart was defeated long ago by her charm and wits. He stepped a bit closer, chuckling, heartly. “I am sorry, I couldn’t restrain myself.”

“Oh you!” she poked his arm.

“So would you like some tea?”

“Yes, would be good for getting warm again.”

“Good. I wouldn’t ask you, but I know you rather curious if I inhabit something else then suits, so is it okay for you, when I change into something more comfortable?”

Laughing she answered, “You live here, you can do anything you want. Sure, go ahead.”

“It’s rude, that’s why I am asking.”

“No, it’s not. I’ll take off my heels, when it’s okay for you. My feet are killing me, the rest of me is fine.”

“Okay good, then I’ll go, set on the kettle and be back in a minute,” he turned around. “Make yourself home. If you like you can put some record on.”

Then he went for the kitchen where he filled up the kettle and set it on the stove, then he went into his bedroom. There he hanged up his jacket and the vest. The shirt went onto an extra hanger aside from the rest for the cleaners. Out of his wardrobe he fetched his favourite jumper - black, knitted with holes in it.

Clara had browsed through his records and had found some David Bowie she had put on. Haven’t used a record player for ages she worried she would break the thing and made a little happy dance when the thing started to play the music. 

“Good choice,” Randall said, leaning at the door frame.

“Oh,” Clara jumped slightly startled, turning around, catching sight of his new outfit. It was nothing she had expected, even she didn’t know what she had expected. “You look different.”

“Did you really expect I inherit only suits or maybe a shirt with a print like a suit?”

“Maybe I did, I don’t tell you,” she used his coming closer to adore him a while longer in his new look. “I like it, I like the jumper,” she stretched out her arm so her fingers could touch the fabric of it. “I like your suits too, but that is definitely my new favourite on you.” 

“Thank you,” he watched her fingertips trace over the knitted wool, when one finger got entangled - deliberately or unintended he couldn’t say - with one of the holes, he turned back to her face with his eyes. 

She was still watching her finger poke one of the holes, totally forgotten that it was connected to a jumper who was worn by a person - by him. She smiled about her own childishness and only realized that Randall had came closer when his right hand touched her ear, shoving a strand of hair behind her ear. It was a very gentle touch, and Clara looked at him with wide open eyes.

He couldn’t say where his courage had came from, touching her in such an intimate way. Watching her examine his jumper sent shivers through his body, even he couldn’t feel her touch, it was only on the fabric, very light, a slight tugging. It was the observation of her hands and the imagination that she would lean in a bit more, touch him properly there, that made his heart beat faster and his body heat rise.

For him the thought alone felt indecent and he marveled once again over himself that he was not able to give up his coy and prim nature, but then he saw the strand of hair falling down and the moment begged him almost to do something about it. So maybe it was his OCD calling or it was his heart. In the end it didn’t matter to him, there was a need and when he raised his fingers to bring her hair behind her ear again, he felt his heart skip a beat - he knew exactly which of his needs called for satisfaction.

“I…,” he began and instead finding words he decided to get lost in her brown eyes that stared at him like a fawn that just had seen daylight for the first time. 

First she seemed shocked, then. when she realized what he was doing, what he really was doing, she leaned into his fingers that had trailed gently over her ear, and a joyful smirk grew on her lips. 

Clara hadn’t expected anything like this, him standing so close that she felt both their body heat linger in the small space between them. Maybe a chat about books and a nice, warm cup of tea before the cab would take her away for the night. 

She tried to read in his eyes, tried to match the colour they had in this moment to the exact emotion he had in this moment. He had asked her about her expectations several times and she found it almost dull that it was now her, asking in silence, what his might were. 

_'We are not going to race this’,_ she thought and was glad they didn’t. She liked him too much already. She dared to say, that there were other distant feelings she might could have compared with something like love, but she knew that would be one daring thought too much in this early state of their relationship and so she instead went for another venture. 

Her lips landed on his, and he could do nothing but stand there and let it happen. Her hands had grabbed his jumper to make him bend down to her a little, while she had went on her tip toes to close the gap and then her mouth was pressed onto his. 

Nothing more. A touch, no movement. He knew there was something he should do, something he seemed to have forgotten long ago. He was unable to think, and unable to remember. It was dark - his eyes had fallen shut the moment her lips had pressed against him - he couldn’t think when it was dark. 

And he couldn’t breathe, not like that. His hands had shot up into the air, lingering there, uncertain what to do with them. How to act and how to do this without making a fool of oneself? He lowered his hands toward her shoulder, afraid to touch her, afraid it would be too much for him. Afraid of consequences. 

_‘Idiot,’_ he thought while opening his eyes. 

The situation continued on and became awkward. After Clara had counted to seven, she opened her eyes and found him staring back. Like a deer caught in the headlights. She was backing away, muttering a “ _sorry_ ”. 

Maybe she had expected too much from him.

She wanted to turn around, leave, get out of this situation, but he grabbed her by her wrists and stopped her from backing away. 

“No, please," he said in a low, rough tone, that made her body tense and more than willingly she let him turn her back toward him. "I think I can remember now.” A low whisper.

His hand slid over her forearms, to her waist. The other up to her cheek, making her come to him. Pressing her gently against him, when he lowered his face, and clasped his mouth over her upper lip. 

Clara could feel his long fingers curl around her ear, entangling with her hair, his palm on her cheek, burning the spot. Soft lips gently sucking, his nose brushing against hers, followed by a fine adjustment with his head, to find a better angle, to cover more of her lips with a slow warm sensual kiss. 

He could feel the stream of air coming out of her nose, brushing over his face, could smell her perfume and taste some mint on her lips. It was overwhelming but he was able to let all the impressions flow in without processing them. Without trying to control them. He remembered that this is not what you do, while kissing. You just kiss, and that’s it, so he did. 

She hadn’t expected that the kiss would feel so natural to her. So warm and tender. The way he kissed her was shy and yet demanding. Every time his lower lip lost its touch to her mouth, there was a slight hesitation, like he wanted to give her the chance to back away, but it was only a fraction of a second. And everytime he fully connected again, he put more pressure into it. 

She sensed the hand by her hip and the push of only two fingers into her side, toward him. A guidance. She obeyed and wondered how he could be so timid and demanding at the same time. Her hands slid up his arms and fell around his neck, the tip of her fingers finding their way into the accurate trimmed grey hair.

His mouth opened slightly, unsure if it was the right thing to do, but it just happened without him thinking about it. Clara felt his parting lips and her tongue touched his upper lip. Then there was a brief hesitation he quickly overcame with pulling her in tight, letting his tongue slip over hers and so they went lost in a passionate kiss. 

Clara was sure her heart already had jumped out of her chest, so fast and hard it was beating against the surface of her inside. The rushing of blood in her ears felt like an orchestra playing a symphony on the doorstep. Her fingers perceiving every hair of his neck, every little unevenness of his skin, and her own skin burned under his caring touches.

She was soft and warm and she smelled like spring and tasted like autumn. The air would run out eventually, but he couldn’t stop, he couldn’t let go of her, in fear it would never happen again. Whatever possessed him to kiss her like this, it had made his world go from black and white to technicolour. He felt like coming home in her arms. 

Then there was a sudden loud noise and they both got startled and broke suddenly away from each other. Clara thought about a fire alert, but Randall knew better and placed his hands quickly on her shoulders. 

“It’s the kettle,” he said over the noise, that came from the kitchen. 

Clara sighed relieved, bumping her head against his chest, her arms around his waist, “That’s a very loud kettle.”

He smirked, making her look at him. “A very old one,” he explained, his eyes flickering to her lips once more, but the noise was too unnerving and he smiled apologetically. “I am back in a minute,” brushing his hands over her shoulders one last time.

He had found the kettle two decades ago on a flea market and had fallen in love with the thing for whatever reason and even he knew it was maybe time for a new one, he never could bring it over his heart to dislodge the damn thing. However, now, while purring the hot water into the mugs, and after the metal thing had ended a beautiful moment, he was willing to finally let go. The thing had squandered his sympathy. 

Randall returned to the living room with two mugs of tea, finding Clara sitting on the sofa, her feets lifted under her body. He sat aside her, holding out one cup, unsure what to say. 

She took it with a soft smile, her eyes slowly wandering over his face, his lips still slightly red from their kiss. He was over twenty years older, she thought, but he had kissed her like a young man, knowing exactly what he wanted and that had pushed Clara in a little turmoil inside. Now he was sitting in front of her, nipping from his mug, and seemed not to know what to say. She feared he was afraid and afraid was okay, but she couldn’t go with him when he was unable to shrug off the worry from time to time. 

It took him a minute to realize that he should say something to her. Little fine lines built up on her forehead and he could see clouds in her eyes that taught him about her worries that where inevitably connected with him. Instead of saying something, he placed his mug on the table and then reached for her shoulders. She looked at him, unsure what he would do.

“You… you can lean in, if you like,” he offered and pointed at himself not sure how to make the offer less awkward. To his happiness her lips curled into a smile and she quickly placed the mug aside and snuggled into his chest. 

He leaned back against the rest, his arms around her, feeling her relax into his body and into the situation and so he was able to relax into the moment. A yawn escaped her and she felt her eyes fall shut. 

“I…,” she started to mumble, but Randall hushed her.

“You can sleep if you like, I’ll watch over you,” his head slowly dropped down to the rest. The dinner, the cold and the cozy moment demanded its price now. With last strength he grabbed a blanket and placed them over her.

She hummed, “What about the cab?”

“I haven’t called one,” he whispered, and then they both drifted off into a deep sleep.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed that one, I'll post next week again, then there will be week pause because I am going on holiday in Cardiff (DW Experience here I come!).  
> Thanks for the reading and all the comments you leave! Everybody take care!


	17. 17_There is danger I'll rearrange your books

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Let's get a bit domestic.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Okay, this is a longer chapter (my chapters are getting longer...!? good for you! ;) ) about the day after they had their date. The next chapter will probably make a jump, not sure yet. Just don't wonder. I don't want to bore you to death with domestic fluff because I know you guys crave the interesting bits and pieces of our pair.  
> Also I wanted to explain something, I let Randall mention earlier he was in Croatia. Who has seen "The Hour" knows he actually was in Spain while the Spanish Civil War. Because this AU plays in the now, and I needed to stay with his backstory I chose Croatia because it fits the time and everything. It's not super important but some maybe were confused.

When Clara woke up the next morning, she found herself lying on her stomach, covered with two blankets in which she had literally tangled up with. Groaning into the pillow that was more over her head as under, she tried to remember what had happened last. Quickly she could reconstruct that she had fallen asleep with Randall on his couch. Now she was far away from a couch, she was in a bed - presumably his she guessed by the soft scent that lingered in the sheets. She couldn’t recall how she had made it into it. 

Entangling herself out of the blankets, she saw she was still wearing her dress, but the zip at the back of it was open. It made her wonder. Turning on her back she glanced around the room. It was a generous room with a large clothes cupboard, another sideboard, two nightstand's aside the big bed. Randall’s suit he had worn yesterday hung on one door of the wardrobe. Everything was clean and like the living room without much nick-nack. 

When her look fell on the nightstand and the clock that stood there, she bolted up. It was two minutes after nine in the morning. She couldn’t remember when she had slept that long on the weekend. Quickly she shuffled out of the bed and looked around, finding a pile of clothes onto a stool at the end of the bed with a paper note on top of it.

_‘Clara,_

_You might want to change. In the depth of my wardrobe I found something that might fit with a little improvisation. Nothing for the opera, but I hope it is enough to join me for breakfast as soon you have woken up._

_Randall’_

Clara smiled over his note and placed it carefully aside, reaching for the clothes he had placed out for her. It was a grey jumper with the word _“Cambridge”_ on the front of it and some black jogging pants. Immediately she imagined him wearing the two things and she had to admit it was not easy to built up a picture of him in it in her head. Smirking, she undressed herself and slipped on the more comfortable clothes. The improvisation he had been spoken off consisted in rolling up sleeves and the legs of the trousers a few times. 

Really nothing for the opera, she thought, looking at herself in a mirror, that hung at the wall aside the bed. 

Looking at her face closer, she was glad her make up was not all smeared over her face. It was probably mostly in his bed now, and she made a grimace over it. He maybe wouldn’t be happy about it. 

When she heard music from outside, she turned around and opened the door. It came from the living room followed by a smell of breakfast in the air. She found Randall rummaging in the kitchen, so she took some seconds to watch him work. He was still wearing the jumper from yesterday, but some other pants. He hummed to the tune of the music.

“I didn’t take you for a humming person,” she spoke up and made him bounce up in surprise. 

He turned around, laying his eyes on her, “Sometimes I get carried away.” Clara looked charmingly disheveled from the night. “Good morning.”

“Good morning,” she noticed his looks and tugged at the hem of the jumper, that was at least three numbers too big for her. 

“I see you found my note. And I see the clothes fit.. more or less,” he turned around to turn off the stove. “Do you want some coffee?”

She slowly walked over to the counter, watching him making eggs in a pan, “Yes, please.”

He placed one mug in front of her, aside with milk and sugar, “I hope, I didn’t wake you up with the music.”

“No, you didn’t. I.. I have slept way too long anyway. How did I got into the bed? I can’t remember…,” she turned the mug a few times around. 

“We both fell asleep on the couch and after a while I woke up and thought you might have it better in a bed, so I carried you into my bedroom,” he nipped, slightly blushing, from his coffee. “I opened up the zip of your dress, for more comfort. In case you were wondering. It was not my intention to...,” he broke off, feeling foolish. 

“No, it’s fine. Thank you,” Clara picked up a fork and started to eat the scrambled eggs with toast he had served them both. “Did you sleep on the couch?”

“It’s more comfortable as it looks,” Randall lied, and Clara knew it. The thing was smaller as his owner. They both smiled over it. He probably had a restless night behind him. 

When he had carried her into his bed, he had made sure she was covered and wouldn’t get cold overnight. Then he had searched in his wardrobe for something to wear for her, and remembered some old clothes of his student time back in the old days. He seldom wore them, but they were still good and clean. Clara was so deep asleep that she hadn’t heard him probing everything for her and when he had glanced in in the morning to get some new clothes for himself she was still happily asleep - so he let her. 

“Since when you are awake?”

“Around six,” he ruffled his own hair and Clara observed that he must have had a shower already, because his hair was not combated back with gel in its usual style, but fluffy and hung a bit loose around. She noticed that he had gorgeous looking curls and the silver in them came out very nice without the gel, what made it always a bit darker. 

Inevitable she felt the need to touch his curls and Randall noticed her stare and smirked at her over the rim of his glasses. He could see the desire of running her hand through his hair in her eyes. “Are my hair on fire, or something?”

She blushed, “Not exactly. I never have seen you … like this. All casual,” and after a few bites she added, “I like your hair.”

“It’s all grey,” he answered so fast, that Clara asked herself if he had expected it, while he glanced up as if to see if it really was so.

Clara could sense the insecurities about his age in the words, and placed her fork aside with a little clatter, stepping closer to him. Randall stopped eating, placing his hands into his lap, waiting for what would come. His fingers fiddling with one hole of his jumper, and his way of expressing nervousness amused her. They were both all the same in that regard. Fiddling. Searching for control. One hand of hers reached out and softly brushed against his temple, “So?”

He concentrated on her touch, sitting perfectly still, “It’s just… it’s grey. I thought you should know that.”

She pursed her lips, meeting his eyes, her fingertips tracing slowly and carefully through the strands of hair, “Did you think I have missed this little detail?”

He reminded himself to breathe, “You are no one who is missing the obvious.” His voice was low and breathy from the night or from Clara’s affections, he couldn’t tell.

Her fingers ran now entirely through his thick curls and she noticed how his eyes fell shut over the sensitive touch. The hair was soft and it was like placing a hand into clouds for her. She leaned in with her face, until her forehead touched his, and he jumped slightly over the contact but remained with closed eyes where he was. “Randall?”

“Mh?”

“Do you still think I am too young for you?” her cheek pressed against his, - he was freshly shaven - building up friction. He hummed over the contact.

“I only want you to know, that I am twenty years older than you, and people will look at us and ask if I am your father,” he whispered pressing into her touch, his fingers searching for her hips.

Clara smiled, pressing a kiss onto his ear, “I am sure they will not.”

“What makes you say that?” his hands were touching her hips, pulling her gently into the space between his legs, longing for an embrace. 

A chuckle of hers made him open his eyes again. Taking his face between her hands, she pulled him closer, “Because I never would snog my father like this!” and with that she embraced him and captured his lips with hers, gently sucking at his lower lip, till he returned the favour. 

He would have been a liar, when he would have said, he had expected that to happen, and he would have been an even bigger liar, when he would have said, he knew how to react to such affection in the morning. His hands rubbed half in panic half in need over her sides, gently patting her shoulders, as if they were playing a game and she was next, while her hands routed through his hair. 

She let go of him with a plopping sound, leaving him with red swollen lips and an expression of exhaustion and contentment behind. His hair dishevelled and his eyes not open, not closed. Her impact on him was obvious and it couldn’t have make her happier. 

“Message sent,” she licked her lips, grinning at him.

He grabbed for his coffee mug, still puzzled, “Message… message received.”

After they finished their breakfast, Clara followed him back into the living room, where she decided to take a look for a nice book he might let her take with her. She wandered along one of the sideboards and checked the back of the books, that laid there, briefly touching them with her fingertips. The finger she used stayed on the surface of the sideboard and slid over a newspaper and at the end of it, over the brown wooden box she had seen earlier. It was big as a piece of paper, and had fine lines of engraving on it. When she reached it with her fingers, the palm of her hand spread out and over it. It felt old. Her finger trailing along over one of the engravings, when Randall suddenly stood aside her, grabbing for the newspaper. 

“Thinking about rearranging my stuff?” 

She eyed him when he said it, because it not sounded convincingly like a joke. There was nothing light in it, there was more something like fear in it. Only a hint of it and it was not graspable for her. Clara saw his eyes flicker to the wooden box, her hands were still on. Then he quickly played around with the folded newspaper, as if to try to fold it once more - a gesture of embarrassment and also nervousness. She took one last look at the box, padded it softly, and then strolled over to the bookshelves.

 

“No, I don’t.”

He stayed by the sideboard unsure what to do, and finally placed the newspaper on top of the box, keeping quiet while Clara read the back of the books.

“You really have a favour for Freud do you?” she touched the books with her finger, but kept an eye on not moving them, knowing it would might bug him. 

“Sigmund Freud, yes,” he stepped closer, taking one of the books out of the shelve. “The father of psychoanalysis. I always liked psychology and analysing people, always good as a journalist to understand people,” he randomly browsed through the pages, stopping here and there, reading one word or a whole sentence, then he added, “maybe I tried to find an answer for my compulsions, too,” he closed the book and held it out to Clara.

She reached for it, and also for his hand, “Do we have to talk about them again?” 

He touched her cheek for a second, before taking the book from her, placing it exactly back into the shelf, “In case you really want to know for what you have to prepare yourself? Maybe we should. Well, I can say I am not circling my bed three times before I go to bed.”

“No?” she rose an eyebrow in mischief. “What if I do?”

He made a smacking sound with his lips, “I don’t wash my hands fifty times a day and I don’t have to drive home while at the university to control again if my door is locked. But I am sure you have already noticed all the little needy things I am doing, and I can’t … I can’t promise you, that you will not get annoyed over it.”

She sighed, “I have noticed. You like straight lines, you place things in certain angles, you have a very close connection with your tie and your glasses,” when she mentioned it, he couldn’t fight the urge down to actually touch his glasses and his neck. “We’ll manage that. I’ll manage that.”

He drifted away for a moment, thinking about the past. 

_His days back in Croatia, when he sometimes fiddled with all her things, her camera equipment placing it here and there so it would look right to him. His behaviour had made her sometimes morose and sometimes, when they had left the hard and horrible day behind them and had enough alcohol in their veins, she placed her things back the way she liked it. Only to nag him, to push him. She could be a like a burning fire, he not even could resist after he had burned himself._

_Back in these days, that was what she could do to him, push him, she controlled him and she knew it, and so did he. Also late at night, when they heard gunfire far away, he had left behind all his odd behaviour, while burying his face into the crook of her neck, making her call his name. In the night, it was him who controlled her._

“Randall?” Clara reached for his hands. It was not the first time, this had happened, she thought. This empty stare into the past, a flicker in his eyes only, but she noticed. His body in the room, his mind not. It made her ask herself where his heart was at these moments. 

The touch made him blink a few times, to shake off the past, “I am sorry. I remembered how my behaviour could make someone very angry at me.” His words sounded final and he ended the topic with sliding his fingertips along the frame of his glasses, before stepping away from the shelf. 

Clara observed him for a moment and then decided to push her questions about it away - again, “Do you have to work today?” she followed him and reached for his hand. 

“No. I could, but I don’t have to,” he entwined his fingers with hers. 

“No plans?”

“No plans.”

“Would you like to spend the day with me and some sightseeing in the city? You could show me Glasgow,” she placed her chin against his chest, looking up to him.

It made him chuckle, “Would you like to do that? Doing the city tour with the worst city guide ever?” 

“I just want to spend time with you. If it helps, you can make up stories and tell them to me as new discovered legends about Glasgow.”

His eyes travelled down her body, “You might want to change for this? I can drive us over to your apartment, you change and then we’ll see what we’re going to do?”

Clara agreed and so Randall drove them over to her apartment, so she could change in some clothes her size. When they had found a parking spot Clara turned toward him, “Is it okay for you to come up?”

He knew exactly why she asked, “There is a danger I will rearrange your bookshelves.”

She smiled getting out of the car, “I’ll take that risk. I think they need a new order anyway.”

They both joked about his compulsions, but Clara knew, that he might was stressed out by her not so straight lined and cleaned up apartment, but she trusted him that he would say something in case it was not tolerable for him.

Clara led the way into her living room and Randall followed her in silence, his hands in his pockets, fully aware of many things he could _‘correct’_ , but he tried not to make a fool out of him. It was her apartment, her place. It wasn’t his right to intervene and usually he had managed in the past very well without trespassing boundaries when he was with strangers. Not that that had happened a lot in the last few years. 

“You have a nice place,” he looked around, eyeing the large bookshelf, the comfy little corner where her telly and the couch were set and the many odds and ends she kept. 

“Thank you, feel like home, the kitchen is there, in case you want to drink something, I’ll just go and change, yes?” 

He nodded and Clara vanished to her bedroom. Slowly he walked along the sideboard and shoved a book that laid there away from the edge, his fingertips trailing along the wood. By the books he immediately connected with one book in the upper right corner. A book about Marcus Aurelius. Taking it out he traced the cover and the corners of the well read book with his fingers. It seemed she was very fond of the book, and while he smelled the inside of the book he smiled about her affection for the Roman emperor and philosopher. What Sigmund Freud was to him, Marcus Aurelius seemed to be for Clara. Carefully he shoved it back into the shelf, exactly how he had found it, a bit skewed and only three fourth down in the shelf. 

The next thing he noticed was a frame at her wall with a leaf in it. He wondered and thought about a kid collecting leaves for school, but this one had no label written aside and it seemed to him, that it was collected for another purpose. He stared at it for a minute, forcing his mind to come up with an explanation but when he heard Clara hum, he shrugged and dared to walk to her bedroom, softly knocking at the door. 

“Come in, I am almost finished,” Clara called, searching for some socks in her wardrobe, now wearing a denim and a better fitting jumper. 

Randall stood in the door frame, looking around in her small bedroom. He smirked over the chaos on her dressing table. Something he remembered from old, long gone times with women he had met - it was always the same and he quickly had learned not to touch women's make-up and jewellery - even when the feeling to go mad inside was burning. So he quickly distracted his attention toward her bed, where his clothes laid. Instinctively he grabbed for them to fold them. 

Clara watched him, while putting on her socks, not without smiling fondly over the picture. He only noticed, when he had sat down, the small pile in his lap, his hands folded on top of it. 

Blushing, he tugged at the hem of his jumper, “I was in desperate need to redecorate your living room, so I thought I better check for you.”

“It’s fine. You can do that, you know,” she walked up to him. 

“No I shouldn’t,” he objected. “It would be rude and I would trespass your personal boundaries.”

“Well, you wouldn’t sniff around, would you?”

“No, of course not, but I know I can’t take it very well when people take away my books,” he explained, his mind wandering again back, to his time in London, when he regularly noticed that his books were missing. 

_It was not stealing of course, she always had brought them back but she usually never had asked for permission. A right she had earned years ago back in their time in Croatia. He had let her concede but deep inside of him, the question which book she had taken, had always troubled him till deep into the night._

“Or something similar. I think I just shouldn’t.”

“I trust you,” she only answered, having noticed, that he had been away again for a moment - by some books and she could guess very well, that with the books a persona had appeared in his mind. A twitch with the little notch between his eyes betrayed a sad or bitter remembrance - she couldn’t say. 

He looked up to her, when he heard her words, placing the clothes aside from him, “Do you really want to take the city tour?” he reached out for her hands and pulled her hesitantly in. 

She eyed him, her hands grateful for his warming fingers on her skin, “You don’t want.”

He licked his lips, smirking, while simply bringing her so close to him, that he could lean his head against her stomach. His reaction surprised her. His eyes fell shut, and he hugged around her as if he was clinging to a surface. 

“I…,” he began and noticed he couldn’t say something and listen to her breath at the same time. Instead he inhaled deeply, taking in all of her, her scent and the warmth of her body against his face. 

Clara let him. Enjoyed it - him opening up. Her hands dug into his hair, ruffling and caressing them. “We don’t have to.”

“Not that I don’t want to show you the city,” he finally spoke. “Just right now, I want to be here with you. I feel safe here,” he looked up to her and as answer Clara kissed him gently on his forehead. Than she kissed the tip of his nose and in the end his lips, her hands on his shoulders pressing him down and he gave in, letting her guide him down and then up the bed. With each kiss they shared he lost his shyness and allowed himself to indulge. Their kiss was slow and enriched with little exploring touches of their hands over the upper body of the other. Randall’s hand trailed over her shoulder and her neck, his fingers dug into her hair. His lips parted and he leaned forward while gently pressing the back of her head into his direction. 

Clara felt his demand and moved keen into his direction. Parting her lips too, when his tongue had brushed over her lower lip, to meet the taste of coffee on his. Her body lay on top of his, and she could feel his other hand embrace her back, holding her close. One hand around his neck, the other at his cheek and jawline demanding his closeness all the same. Their kiss began to get frenzied, filled with little gasps and moans. 

He needed to break away from her, gasping for air, feeling a slightly pressure that had built up in his trousers. “Sorry, I am… we… I. I can’t do that yet.”

Clara had felt it too, and shifted down from him, to give him room, “It’s fine. You are right, we shouldn’t…,” she went lost in his eyes. There was no way of denying her daily growing affection for him and if he would have made a move to sleep with her, she wouldn’t have minded. 

He gazed at her for a whole minute rethinking his words of _“not yet”_ and found his eyes travel over her neck and the skin that her wide jumper revealed. Randall adored Clara in every way possible, and he desired her, so much was clear for him, but he not wanted to rush their first time together. For both of them it was clear it would happen, it was only the question when. The way she looked at him, he knew she would give in to him, when he wanted. As same as he would give in to her, when she would make the right move. 

“You are right,” Clara found back her senses and smiled at him. “Screw the city tour.” 

An eyebrow of his cocked up at her words and he chuckled over them, but it was the exact thing he needed to distract himself from his need for her. “Such words, Miss Oswald?”

“Oh, come on,” she grinned. “I have heard the Scottish are the worst, when it is about swearing. Don’t tell me, you don’t swear!”

Randall decided not to answer the question, she would find out. Instead he took her in his arms, and Clara held tight around his waist, resting her head on his chest so she could listen to the beat of his heart. While pressing soft kisses into her hair and stroking her arms and shoulders he decides he wanted to know more about her, “Tell me about you. Tell me everything about you.”

“Everything is a lot,” one of her fingers dug into one of the holes of his jumper. 

“Point made,” he thought. “Tell me about Marcus Aurelius.”

That made her arch up, “How?...You really sorted out my bookshelf, haven’t you?”

“I just noticed,” he brushed away some of her hair strands, with one of his more stoic expressions, fearing she would interpret his behaviour as snooping around. She blinked at him and lay her head back on his chest.

“I fancy him.”

“You fancy Marcus Aurelius?”

“Sort of, yes,” she now had shoved all of her fingers in a hole and Randall watched her play with the cotton. “He is a great philosopher. It’s a bit like you and Freud.”

“That sounds like I have an affair with the man,” he chuckled. “What’s with the leaf? At your wall?” he remembered. “I wondered. I never saw someone frame a leaf.”

“It’s not a leaf,” her fingers stroke over his stomach under the jumper. “It was actually page one of a book I have banned into the basement,” Clara sighed over the memory. “And it tells the story about how my mum and my dad met.”

And so Clara told Randall about her dad, who almost got hit by a car when the leaf had flown into his face, before her mum saved him. She told him about them dating and getting married and she told him about her mom's early death back in 2005 and then he understood why she called it page one. 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I want to thank everyone for reading and commenting, and I am sorry when I don't respond to every comment. I love all your reactions but sometimes I am simply to awe-struck by your words and don't know what to say.  
> There will be NO update next week because I am away. I'll update as soon as I can!


	18. 18_Peppermint and Daisies

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> _So this is a chapter with lots of little bits and lots of little happenings, all more or less important for the later of the story. I kept them all in one chapter and I guess I could make easily three out of this one, but we want to get one, don’t we? I guess I said it before, but everything now falls into place, I think next week will be the week… for whatever, you’ll see. ;)._
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
>  
> 
> _Also a bit more insight into Randall’s youth, his backstory and his inner life._

The weekend flew by faster as they liked it. What had been a dull exercise in passing time, before they had met, had now become a delightful happening, that passed by quicker as one could believe.

Randall persuaded Clara to cook for her in her little flat, even she insisted she had not enough ingredients for a decent dinner.

“We could order something, you know?” The truth was, she felt a bit ashamed that her kitchen and the almost empty fridge was literally screaming ‘ _single woman’_. It was not hers to do big dinners for herself. Mostly she was too tired or too busy doing her markings, so she had hoarded a lot of Delivery Menus on the corkboard behind her kitchen door. Over the time she had found out the best numbers to order, from different restaurants. Why bring chaos over the kitchen, when it was so easy to get something nice to eat?

Randall was all the contrary, he was not the type for ordering food - not that he thought it was tasting bad, he simply didn’t like that he didn’t know how the food was prepared and who had made it. For some reason he had the abstract idea, that the cook was always some person with unwashed hands, sweat stains under their arms and probably had a slight lisp problem. He knew, the thought was rude, but he couldn’t help it.

Aside, cooking helped him relax and find some inner rest. He actually loved following a recipe. When he had stopped drinking, he not only had developed more little ticks, he also had started cooking. It had bewared him from overthinking, from boredom and grabbing for a drink. Instead downing a glass of Whiskey he made his fingers do pour sugar into the dough and taste the sauce he had created for his meals. Later it became a hobby that still kept him busy, but like others spent time in front of the telly or in bars, he had found his personal little happiness for the evening in cooking. The only thing he regretted regularly was that he never had the chance to cook for someone else. It was the perfect opportunity to change that at least for one evening.

“I am sure, you have _something_ in here,” he opened up the cupboards one by one. “There are eggs, … flour and chocolate couverture,” he turned around to Clara who was standing with crossed arms by the doorframe. “What are you? A secret baker's wife?”

Pursing her lips in an attempt to do as if she was pouting, she quickly broke into a laughter, “Souffles. I once tried to do a souffle, and these are the leftovers.”

“Let me guess, the first one didn’t made it, you became frustrated and stopped?” he smirked, moving on in his search for something he could cook.

“How do you know?” she walked over to him and opened one of the cupboards and grabbed for a bag of noodles, placing it with a little thump on the counter before retreating again.

He looked up to the plastic bag and smiled happily, “Ah, something we can start with. The thing about souffles is,” he sighed and stepped toward her, “there are actually from hell. Impossible, but insanely delicious,” he lowered his head and gave her a quick kiss on the lips, before turning away again with a slight blush to find something he could create a sauce for the paste he planned to do. “I made the exact same experience with souffles. They're not exactly something for control freaks,” he gave her a wink. “We really should go to Paris and find someone who can teach us souffle making.”

She could see, that he hadn’t realized yet, what he just had said - maybe even suggested on purpose. “We?”

He was just about to place some herbals on the counter, with his back turned to her, when he stopped in his motion. His body shifting in a tense manner, “I mean…,” he didn’t know what he meant.

Randall only knew he wouldn’t say the truth, he couldn’t. He sealed away his sad expression and conjured a smile on his face when he turned around to her, “When you go, one day, you s-should find someone who teaches souffles. And… and when I maybe go again, I should do the same.”

Since his smiles were still so rare it was hard for her to distinguish between a real smile or a smile that was only there to please her, “Ah, yeah, sure. That’s… an idea of what _we_ could do.”

Was she allowed to do this yet? Muse over his manner of denying a real _“we”_ \- a _“them”_. It was too early. You don’t make plans for a _“together”_ after a few kisses, a few cuddles and a night spent in different rooms.

Unsure what to do, he raised the bag of noodles and shook it, “I hope you are craving pasta, because that’s the only thing you have.”

There he stood, the man with 100 suits in his closet, his hair all tousled, holding up pasta for her. She couldn’t remember someone else ever did that for her. Taking in a deep breath she slowly spread a smile over her face, “Yes, I think I do crave pasta.”

For a very short moment, when he saw how she smiled at him, he felt the impulse to tell her, that he wanted to go to Paris - with her, and it didn’t matter, that their relationship was all this young and fragile, that they didn’t know much about each other and that the future was all a dizzy concept of trying and failing and trying again. Randall was not a man who acted on impulse, except for his OCD. When he was younger, way younger as today - when he would call himself a boy and not a man - he might would have dared to tell her this, but so, there was a long process of thinking and gauging what she would think about it and what not. In the end, he kept all this to himself, postponing it for a moment that might never would come - he couldn’t be sure about it - and said, “Perfect. Pasta it is.”

And so he made them pasta.

\------

When the clock had reached ten in the evening he got all nervous and shifted on the sofa they were sitting, watching the credits roll by of an old black and white movie.

Clara sensed his reasons, why his fingers had started to fumble with the edge of the blanket and why he shifted around all few seconds.

“You are nervous,” she said not looking at him, carefully pressing her shoulder against his.

His hand hovered over her knee for a bit, then instead of lowering it he stood up, toward her bookshelf pushing one of her books into place. The sight of it had bothered him since at least thirty minutes. His finger glided down the saddle toward the shelf board, his back turned toward her.

“It’s late,” he turned a bit so Clara could see his profile. He knew it was too late to go home, he had missed the opportunity hours ago.

Clara kept sitting, even she wanted to approach him, touch him, comfort him in his worry to stay the night, “Do you want to go home?”

“No,” he quickly said, turning around. “Maybe I should. I don’t know actually.”

“Well, you have to make up your mind. I am not going to do it for you,” she had drifted off into her teacher voice and as if to underline her little impatient outburst, she crossed her arms in front of her.

“Are you angry?”

“It came not out the right way,” she finally stood up. “You want to sleep on the couch - again?”

“No,” he eyed the couch and noticed it was even smaller as his own. “I want to be with you.”

“Then where is the trouble?” she walked up to him, reaching out for his hand, turning his palm to make little circles on his skin with her index finger.

Again he shifted his upper body around, his lips parted, and his eyes were fixed on their hands. It was a little touch, that made him go off in flames from the inside. He felt like a phoenix, ready to die in a spectacular ball of flames. Bursting with all the emotions in him. “Do you…,” he blushed and closed his eyes to make it easier for himself, “do you expect me to sleep with you?”

Clara stopped with her finger, eyeing him, how he looked at her, scared and insecure. It was so adorable awkward, she thought. “We said we don’t rush things.”

He sighed, “Do you?”

She let go of his hand, looking him firm in the eyes, “Do you?”

She knew he would not answer the question, instead she could see him slowly break into little pieces because he couldn’t deal with the situation.

Clara had him in hand, completely and he didn’t intent to do something against it. The man who liked to have things in order and situations controlled, gave his being to her, because he had fallen for her. On the outside he was the tamed and reserved middle aged man, with less passions and lesser fears, but on the inside - and Clara saw it in his eyes, that burned a hole through her - this question had made his desires come out of a deep corner he had pushed them all this years.

 _‘How could he still stand,’_ Clara mused and brought a hand to his cheek, _‘He must have locked his heart away for so long, that he had forgotten how to use it.’_

“Come on,” she led him to her bedroom, giving him the jogging pants she had worn earlier, so he could wear them now as a pyjama. “I am back in a minute.” With that she left him alone, changing into her own pyjamas.

When was the last time he had shared a bed with a woman? It must be four years, he thought and slowly changed into the clothes of his. It was too warm for the jumper so he kept on the t-shirt he was wearing, looking at himself in the mirror in front of him. All thin and pale and all ridiculous in these clothes.

Clara came back and he turned, traveling down her body, covered in a nice silk pyjama. It was almost too much for him, so he took his glasses off, smiling shyly at her. He still hadn’t figured out what she wanted him to do. Not that he not wanted to sleep with her, and he wouldn’t say no if she would go for it, but it didn’t feel like the right moment.

“Don’t be silly,” she took his glasses out of his hand and placed them on the night stand. “I don’t want to sleep with you - at least not tonight,” she smirked and the confession made him relax.

“You must know, the last time I spent the night with a woman,” he sat down onto the bed. “It’s been years. I am not-”

“-Shut up!” she placed a finger on his lips. “Don’t do the _‘boyfriend material’_ speech again. It’s not yours to decide about this,” her hand wandered to his and pulled him into the sheets. He gave in without a word.

She rested her head on his chest and snuggled into his side, placing a hand over his heart, feeling its beat.

Two minutes went by, in which he slowly relaxed into the moment, his hand rubbing her shoulder gently and his breath found finally a steady rhythm. “Good night, Clara.”

“Good night, Randall,” she uttered already away in a dream, and asleep.

And so he stayed the night, and in the morning she kissed his face bit by bit, starting with his forehead, to his nose and his cheeks. Kissing his ear, whispering to him that she liked his scent, “You smell like peppermint.”

“Peppermint?”

“And daisies,” her ears got red over her confession.

“Do I?” he chuckled over her description, sniffing a bit, but of course he couldn’t take himself in. “That’s a first.”

Clara placed herself on his chest, her chin on her folded hands, and looked at him, “No one ever told you, that you smell like peppermint and daisies?”

“No, never,” he tried to remember but he obviously never had dated a woman with such a fine nose. “I might smelled too long like whiskey and not like a flower.”

“Well, you do now,” she stretched her neck lingering with her mouth by his lips. “Tell me something about you. It doesn't matter what, just tell me something. Please.”

His hands reached for her cheeks, his thumbs stroking her skin, seeing the plea in her brown eyes he pressed a soft kiss onto her lips, but he not backed away again, simply kept the contact, pecking her lips again and again, while breathing, “I once had a boat. I bought it when my father died - over 30 years ago.”

Clara closed her eyes, letting him roll her over, while giving the attentions back she had given him earlier, telling her about a wooden motorboat like back in the old days - that’s what he called the 60s - and that it was one of his rasher decisions. She wondered in silence how many rash decisions he had made since and was sure there were not many.

“I had it for a few years, than I got sick of it, literally, because my being was and is not made for staying on a boat on water too long,” he smirked over the experience that he was slightly seasick, resting aside from her now, his head lying on his arm. “So I sold it again. It was a beautiful thing, but I would have been more pleased when I could have placed it into my living room.”

“Do you have a picture of it?” Clara rolled to her side, head on her fist.

“Somewhere, why?”

“Just curious, can’t imagine you having a boat,” she rolled on her back and watched the ceiling. “How was your dad?” she then asked, feeling the atmosphere shift at once.

She heard him swallow and inhale a stream of air, “My father... was a _very_ strict man.”

Clara shuddered over the sound of his words. Seven words spoken without loveness, a hint of awe and something she could only identify as pain.

She started to count the seconds, waiting him to say more and she fought the urge down to excuse her curiosity about his father. When he spoke up again, she had reached twenty-two.

“We never spoke,” he gave the memory of shared rooms and no words a dismissive click with his tongue. Sure there were words, but there was no kindness. His father was not a violent man, he never ever had raised his hand against him - his only son - or his wife. Deep inside, a young Randall sometimes had wished for it, because his father never had touched him. Not as a young toddler to show affection and paternale love and not as young men, when he graduated as one of the bests in his year. Not even a handshake.

When he was twenty-three his father had died and Randall had rushed from London back to the home of his childhood, to find an old, used up man, staring at him. Doddery and forgetful holding out a hand to him. A leathery hand, with dark blue veins shimmering through the skin begging for a touch.

He couldn’t do it. He never had learned, and so he had denied his dying father one last touch. Something he often regretted even he knew that his father was in a state of mental derangement. “No, we never spoke.”

“I am sorry,” Clara uttered, but Randall reached for her hand and pressed it, reassuring her she musn’t be.

“Freud said, that when a father dies, it’s the most important event and the most poignant loss in a man's life. And maybe he is right, I can’t tell. I loved my mother dearly, and when she died I really missed her, but when my father died,” his fingers entangled with one of Clara’s strands of hair, “I knew we never would speak. Every chance there was - gone. I am not sure there even was one.” He sighed loudly, taking his glasses off, to place them on his chest, covering his eyes with his arm for a moment.

“It’s not your fault,” Clara turned, taking his arm softly away.

“I know,” he shoved the glasses back onto his nose. “Years ago I shook it all off. One can not be driven by guilt, Clara.”

He knew it was a lie.

##

On Sunday afternoon Randall left for home, after Clara admitted she had to do some markings for the next day, she already had procrastinated the work already since Friday. He self had some things to do and so they kissed goodbye and she promised him to come by in his office the next day.

Clara’s monday morning was a hectic one, after her bus had decided not to show up on time, and she already had been late when she had left her apartment after spending the morning in a happy daze of remembering her time with Randall.

In the University she tried to catch a glimpse of him on the floors, while she hurried to her classroom, but aside from Freddy - in the distance - she saw no one. She waved at him and he nodded back, and she hoped the student would be around his teacher, but it wasn’t so.

Her students kept her occupied till noon and then she was already exhausted and only grabbed some sandwiches in the canteen, before she decided to pay him a quick visit. Passing the mail office, she checked her compartment only to find a pile of newsletters and two delayed submitted essays. Already on her way out she had the idea to be nice and checked Randall’s compartment too. It had the same newspapers in it a few letters from media services outside the school and down all off it, another letter. She knew the letter, it was the same she had given him, after it had fallen to the floor. Same handwriting, same addressor.

For a moment she thought about leaving everything in the compartment, it was like the letter had stung her. There was something with the letter that twisted something in her heart.

 _‘Surely it’s nothing,’_ she dismissed her stupid thoughts, and grabbed the pile and walked off to Randall’s office.

She found him standing by his books, dressed again in a suit - of course. One hand in his pocket, he smiled fondly at her. Happy seeing her, he placed the book aside and closed the door behind her.

“Hey,” she smiled at him, he towering over her, looking at her all lost and curious about all the papers in her hand. “I brought you your mails.”

When taking the pile from her, his hands brushed over hers, “Thank you.” He turned away placing everything on his desk, when he turned back, Clara pulled out another paper out of her bag.

“And this,” she held out the letter to him. “Sorry, it’s so small, so I put it better in my bag.”

She had done it on purpose of course, because the twinge in her heart hadn’t left her all the way up to his office. She needed to see his reaction to the letter, but there was none.

It was not a Wednesday, but he knew he hadn’t checked for the letter the last Wednesday, so it must be the one from last week. He reached out and took it from her, making himself not look away from her and simply placing the letter onto the pile.

Clara felt stupid at once, if the letter would mean anything to him, he would have reacted in another way. She didn’t trusted him to be able to beguile himself like that.

“I missed you,” she stepped to him, almost throwing herself around him and he reaction marveled him. It seemed it was her way of excusing her handling with the letter and it gave him a guilty conscience. He had to talk with her about it.

“Clara,” he run his hands over her back, lowering his nose to nuzzle her hair. “I would like to -,”

There it knocked at the door and the intruder had at least the decency to give Clara and Randall a few seconds to separate from each other before stepping in. It was Freddy with some papers in hand, strolling inside. The moment he saw Clara he stopped and made quick conclusions, a smile spreading over his face.

“Mister Lyon, did you have nobody who teached you to wait for a proper _‘come in’_ when knocking at a door?” Randall exhaled loudly, shoving one hand into his pocket, the other ran over his front to smooth out possible wrinkles Clara’s embrace had left. He gave Freddy a posture of protest of his actions.

Freddy eyed him, as usual not intimidated by his teacher, but well aware that he had violated his privacy. “Of course I had. My parents were very insistent about that. Than I became a journalist,” he waved on hand in the air. “When I would wait every time I knock on a door, for a ‘ _come in’_ I never would get any stories, wouldn’t I?”

Randall lowered his chin, with a purse of his lips, while his eyes darted over to Clara who couldn’t hold back an appreciating smile, “Mister Lyon, I must say you have a point. But my office is not the place to find a story.”

“Mh,” Freddy licked his lips, visibly enjoying the little verbal exchange with his teacher, who he had quickly concluded seemed to be in a relationship with Miss Oswald. He wouldn’t mention it of course. “That’s why I spared you the _‘come in’_. There is no reason to wait, when there is no story, isn’t it.”

Clara interrupted Randall before he could say something, “Your wits is daunting, Mister Lyon.”

“Daunting? It was not my intention to appal you Miss Oswald,” he lowered his shoulders a bit, as to bow for forgiveness.

“You didn’t. Take it as a compliment,” she stepped into the direction of the door. “Do I see you later, Mister Brown?”

His expression softened for a fraction of a second, “Yes.”

“I am looking forward to it,” she returned his look, turned to Freddy and smirked before she left the office.

Freddy followed her with his eyes till the door went shut, then turning back to Randall with an expression on his face that was clearly saying, that Freddy seemed impressed.

Randall didn’t look at him, he pinned a news article at the corkboard at the wall beside his locker, “Keep it to yourself, Mister Lyon. Keep it all to yourself.”

“It was not my intention to say anything, Mister Brown,” he tried a stern face, but Freddy was way too full of youth and mischief and so he usually resembled a boy, who tried not to break up into laughter in front of his parents. Randall knew he would be able to keep that face when he would get older, so he only licked his lips, and smiled slightly at him. “I am sure you had a reason to come here.”

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> The part about the boat I took from the show, where he stated, that he once bought a boat after his father death. How is father was is just speculations. We know not much about Randall and I take what I have and try to come up with a backstory that fits.
> 
> I am not sure yet, but with luck, I'll post the next chapter on Wednesday! And I can promise you will like it! ;)  
> Thanks to all who are still reading this long and suffering story! Stay with me, you will not regret it!!


	19. 19_Clara, my Clara

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Why this story has an M-rating? You'll find out in this chapter. Nothing graphical.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Some of you maybe waited so long for such a chapter, so I advice you to read it slowly and carefully to enjoy it in all its completeness. ;)  
> Also I want to remark, that I switched the tense at some point in the story. Not sure if this is a horrible thing to do, but for the scene it simply works better. Well, my story, my rules ;). I am sure you will like it in the present tense better too.

It had slipped him and he couldn’t explain to himself why - at first. When Clara stood in his doorframe of his office, he knew why it had slipped him. Because of her, because he was all besotted by her and what was work in comparison to this woman he had spent the most wonderful weekend with since years?

The message had been in the pile of letters and newspapers she had given him in the morning. He had disdained his responsibility as head of communication for a bit, to allow his mind to wander off to Clara from time to time. His carelessness came back to him as dire consequences. It felt to him like it, even he knew it was a thing that would have happened anyway. 

Randall had to leave to a conference in London on Tuesday morning for two days. Nothing that hadn’t happened before, but with such less preparation it stung his heart to tell Clara they couldn’t see each other for a few days. He longed for her presence and for her hugs and kisses. 

“I am sorry, it slipped me,” she could see the way he bit the inner of his lips, that he was angry with himself.

“Don’t be angry with yourself,” she held out her hand and waited for him to take it. He did, kissing her fingers softly. “We had busy days. Things like that can happen.”

“You are not disappointed?” he had planned to invite her for dinner the next day and take her to the gallery of modern art for a little late night event they would give. 

“It’s not like you don’t come back, right?” she rubbed his cheek and was pleased how he leaned into the touch. “You come back on Thursday? I could come over to your apartment and make dinner for you, while you unpack and be afraid I will destroy your kitchens order.”

With a glee in his eyes he gazed at her with pursing lips, “I’ll sweat blood and water. Yes, that sounds nice. I should be home till six.”

“Then I’ll be there,” her fingers spun around the labels of his jacket pulling him down to her level, to make him kiss her. After all the shared affections, the kisses and the cuddling it wondered and amused her at the same time how surprised he could be over her little intimate attacks. His arms and hands swaying in the air, as if he had lost control over them or had forgotten what they were made for, followed by a hum of astonishment, as if every kiss, every touch was the first they shared. Let alone his eyebrows - they clearly had a life of their own. 

And then when she was about to break away he found back to senses and brought his arms around her, one on her lower back, the other tangled in her hair, his fingertips at the back of her head, urging her to kiss him a little while longer. 

When he let go of her, he always held her in his arms till she had opened her eyes again to caught sight of his ardent gaze. A wild animal imprisoned inside the body of Randall. It only lasted till he blinked and the fierce stare had vanished. Replaced by a soft but restrained expression of joy and affection. 

###

Thursday

Clara found herself staring at the clock every few minutes wondering how it was possible for time to slow down to an almost standstill. She hadn’t heard from Randall since they had parted on Monday and hopped everything was fine with him. Also she was desperate to end the school day to drive over to his apartment to finally see him again. 

She left school at four and hurried home to change clothes and take a shower and then hurried to the bus station shortly before six and arrived at his apartment twenty minutes later. She was wearing a green dress with white dots, a grey jumper and a leather jacket and of course his scarf around her neck. It had become warmer, but she was sensitive around her neck and also got used to the soft wool that caressed her skin. 

Glancing up she could see dim light and was relieved he was home, it made her heart set a quicker pace and with eager joy she pressed the doorbell. 

After the buzzer came she hurried up the stairs and gave the door of his a slight knock. It took not long for Randall to open the door, he had waited patiently for her there.

They didn’t speak. There was no need. 

Randall’s eyes travelled over Clara, the fine, casual dress that matched perfectly to his green tie, he still was wearing with his vest. He only had taken off his jacket. He adored the leather jacket on her, and he imagined her on a motorbike, him on the back, while she drove with him around the town. He was probably as useless with motorbikes as with boats, but the thought warmed his heart. Her cheeks were flushed with pink, so quickly she had hurried up the stairs, her breath slightly uneven. When he had opened the door she had smiled at him, with open mouth and had brushed away a strand of hair that hung loosely over her eye. 

Did she get a haircut, while he was gone? His eyes lingered by her hair long enough that it made her smile and she blinked to tell him that she did get a haircut. 

His breath had quickened, she noticed by the fast pace his chest went up and down under his white shirt and the vest. She saw the tie and smirked over the match. In the background she saw his suitcase, he hadn’t unpacked yet. 

It was only a few days, but she had missed him dearly and by the way he looked at her, it seemed it was all the same to him. Before she had reached his door, her first impulse was to ask him why he hadn’t called but this was now far away. It didn’t matter anymore, not right now, maybe later. The only thing that now mattered was that he was here and that she was there too.

She stepped inside, not looking away, into the dim corridor, and closed the door behind her. He didn’t move, not one inch, when she approached him, tiptoeing and reaching for his neck to pull him down with all the fondness in her eyes, longing for a long necessary kiss.

Her lips enclosed around his lower lip and this time he skipped the awkward part and brought his hands around her, hugging her tight, taking the invitation of her lips to kiss her with a soft moan. All the tensions of the last days fell off of him, the second she gave into him. It was now just her and him. 

Clara pressed herself into him, almost clinging and he needed to step backwards, quickly realizing it was what she wanted and so they wandered kissing and fondling into his living room. It wouldn’t end there. Her hands found the first button of his vest, fumbling with it for a moment. It had been a while for her to undress a man. 

When they reached the bedroom, all the buttons were open and he had let her shove it over his shoulders down to the floor. His lips not once separated from hers. His hands held her cheeks, gently brushing over her skin, nipping at her lower lip, tasting her with his tongue while they shared little gasps and moans all the way. He knew where she wanted to go and that this would not only end with cuddling. Randall knew Clara wanted all of him this night. Feel him, taste him, indulge with him. As she wanted him to feel her, to finally discover every fibre of her body. She wanted him to set off all his hidden and suppressed needs. 

“Clara…,” he whispered, his fingers vanishing under the hem of her jumper. While being at the conference his mind had often wandered - against his will - to her. To her soft lips and her curves he only had discovered briefly in the morning when he had told her about his father. He was still in doubt - brilliant in his job and useless when it came to women and to sex. 

“It’s okay,” she murmured into his ear, when her jumper landed on the floor. She knew it was probably forever for him and it was also over a year for her, and the chance they would fall apart before they even got started was not that small as they might hoped. 

She shuffled him to the edge of the bed, making him sit down and he obeyed staring at her, waiting for her command, waiting for her to take things in hand and to guide him. She kicked her shoes off and crawled into his laps, her knees left and right from him, reaching for his face to kiss him with all she had. Gasping and humming he stroke her back, feeling the zipper under his fingers and he grabbed for it and guided it down. The sound the zipper made let him shiver in anticipation what would come. 

Clara worked at his tie, tender but eager she loosened it and placed it aside. It made his collar askew and when she broke the kiss in need for air she looked at a dishevelled Randall, his hair ruffled by her hands and his lips swollen from her kisses. 

Her dress hung half off her shoulders and Randall couldn’t do anything but reach out with his hand to touch the naked spot, where only her bra strap was left. Two of his fingers travelled from the point of her shoulder along her collarbone to the little hollow at her throat. He stopped there because the dress was still on her other shoulder and he didn’t dare to push the fabric down and so she did it for him. Tugging at her sleeve, the material slide down and revealed her upper body, only covered by her bra now. 

He inhaled sharply when the fabric was gone and his whole body shuttered. Clara took his fingers, that were still laying by her throat, and guided them over the other collarbone under one of her bra straps. Randall attentively following with his eyes. She stopped there but not letting go of his hand, watching him think, feeling his fingertips make little circles on her heated skin.

“Are you sure?” he asked, knowing he couldn’t go back when once crossing the line. 

“Yes,” she whispered, and his shaking hand moved the strap aside. 

His mouth had became so dry he licked his lips and slight panic built up in his chest, he eased it away by leaning forward. 

He stops before connecting with her fully. It’s only the wisp of a touch with his lips, the air out of his nose flowing over her skin and she whimpers at the almost non existent touch. She arches her back to close the gap and when he feels her do it, his other hand comes around her back, outspread over her shoulder blades and her spine, pressing her against his suckling mouth, while inhaling deeply till his head is dizzy from her scent. His tongue peeks out, wetting the crook of her neck, her covered breasts hard against his chest and he feels her lap scooting forward. 

His hand quickly stops her, he is already too close. He will not last long, he knows, and she senses too, taking his hand away but not moving further, instead reaching for the buttons of his shirt, starting at the bottom.

Randall leans back a bit to give her room and watches her undo one button after another with her tiny hands. His heart beat gets faster and faster with each button, that reveals a bit of his skin. 

When she comes to the last button under his chin, his hands clasp around hers, “I am not a young man anymore.”

“What is good, because I am not interested in young men,” she smirks and with that he raises his chin and she opens the button. 

His skin is pale, it doesn’t surprise her. It’s Scotland after all and Randall not a man for doing sunbathing. She shoves the shirt over his shoulders with her fingertips - brushing over his skin while doing so, feeling him shiver and his warm skin is prickling under her fingertips.

They have forgotten the cuff links and now he is trapped in his own shirt, trying to get it off what fails. He blushes, the shirt between them and Clara laughs over the picture he gives, searching his hands in the fabric to free him. They steal kisses from each other, and when she has opened one side he makes quick work with the other cuff link. 

Her eyes wandering over his chest, it makes him blush again, he feels uncomfortable under her attentive looks. There is only slight chest hair, some black and grey curls she shoves her fingers through. He is lean, but not thin. Muscles span under his skin, and his arms feel and look strong. She guesses if he had ever done sports, she would go for a swimmer. To lanky for a footballer, but perfect for a swimmer she thinks. It would fit his character too. Endless laps in silence, just him and the water.

He catches her absent mind with a shy glance over his glasses. 

“You are a handsome man,” she explains her distraction and he wants to say something - probably that she has lost her senses, but she places a finger on his lips to silence him. 

“My turn.” Grinning she hops from his lap, posturing herself in front of him, to pull down the dress, till it falls from itself over her hips down to earth. 

Randall watches, follows the thing to the floor and can’t bring himself to look up again. It needs her finger on his chin, to make him look. Swallowing hard his gaze wanders over her thighs, her blue panties, her flat stomach and the bra with the loose straps. 

He wants to tell her how beautiful she is, but words fail him and he hopes she can see it in his expression. Clara tells him to stand up and turns around, with shaking hands he reaches for the clasp and he fumbles way too long with it, but can manage it in the end. “Sorry.”

“It’s okay,”she turns her head over her shoulders, sliding the bra down her arms. 

It’s not only him who is nervous, it is her too. For over a year she has not slept with a man, has shown herself to someone. She looks nice, she knows, but she has her flaws and insecurities. She watches him stepping closer, shoving his hands over her shoulders, gently pressing her against his bare chest, while bowing to kiss the middle of her neck, nuzzling her hair. The way he touches her, it is almost too much for her, the anticipation and the heat of their bodies, she trembles and then turns around wrapping herself around his waist, her head lying at his shoulder. 

He is clearly aroused, she can feel it pressing against her stomach and when she shifts, a little a groan escapes his mouth, his hands holding her still at her hip before guiding her up on her tip toes with two fingers to meet him for a long kiss. 

It’s the way she tastes and the way her tongue teases his, that makes him want more and more and he can feel how he slowly looses all his control. It’s no more important that his shirt has now wrinkles and that his tie is laying untidy on the bed. Their age gap is no more present for him, he forgets and finds relish in the way her hands travel over his skin, down to his trouser over the fine line of hair he has over his tummy. He finds mental rest in the way her skin feels under his fingertips and that she gets goosebumps when he makes little circles aside the small of her back. 

She shoves down his pants and his underwear, and he looks half smiling half in desperate need to the ceiling holding his own hands, unsure what to do with them and where to place them. Of course she looks, but she doesn’t stare, she smiles at him and a bit over his schoolboy attitude. Then she takes of her knickers and throws them over to the pile of clothes. Her heart hammering loud and her body reacting to Randall’s nakedness already. She is heat all over, mostly in her middle.

Clara takes his hands in hers, pulling him down, for a kiss. Once again he places a hand on her cheek, kissing her with all he got and so they sink down onto the bed, crawling into the middle and they can’t push the need for one another down. All this weeks of dancing around each other, it now demands its sweet price. They both will obey happily. 

Randall lies on top of her, his erection pressing against her hip, his mouth kissing her neck, softly biting her shoulders. He wants to delay it, wants to give them some more minutes of exploring and anticipation. 

“Please,” she whispers in his ear, arching up her back, thrusting up to underline her plea. 

He reaches between them, shifting a little, “You...need to help me,” it is the barest of whisper but Clara knows and joins his hand to guide him. 

When they find each other the room is filled with gasps and moans. It is a slow moving, a feeling out of two, when they become one. He is afraid to hurt her and at the same time overwhelmed by the feeling to be with her. 

She angles her hip to help him, feeling the friction of him moving gently makes her breathing go fast. Warmth fills her body and when his pelvis finally meet hers, she makes him face her, makes him see her smile before kissing him deeply. 

Resting on his elbows aside her head he brushes her hair out of her face and only then he realizes he is still wearing his glasses and she takes it for him from his nose and places it somewhere safe by a pillow.

Their bodies find a slow, sweet rhythm, that floats them with pleasure and happiness and builds up their climax fast. 

Clara feels herself releasing little tensions with shutters and moans and she feels she will soon fall apart. 

“Randall.. I…,” she grabs his hand and he tangles his fingers with her. 

His eyes are dark and dizzy, filled with lust and passion and when she arches her back and presses her head, with closed eyes, into the sheets he flashes his inner visions with news articles and Freud's biography only to hold back a few more seconds, to give her the possibility to enjoy the feeling of pulsing waves of cold and warmth, but when she utters his name it is all too much for him and his body starts to tremble and to tense up, searching her absolute nearness with one last push, before he gasped her name into her mouth through his release.

 

Everything happened all too fast and it was all an unintended rush and when the fireworks in their body retreated and the stars in front of their eyes faded again, Clara softly started to chuckle, meeting an irritated Randall.

“No, I am not laughing because…,” she kissed his cheeks and his mouth, “it was…”

“Too quick…?” he asked.

“Unexpected wonderful.”

Yet they hadn’t enough of each other and so Randall spent the next hour with exploring her body, mapping out each part of her skin with his fingertips and his lips. Trailing kisses over her shoulders down her spine, his fingers feeling out each of her bones and Clara let him do as he liked, closing her eyes humming in consent. Smiling over the gentle touches, sometimes giggling when he reached her sides with his lips and moaning in passion when he found her breasts and soft skin became hard. 

He made a note in his head every time he found a sensitive spot, every time she laughed because his fingertips had tickled her and above all every time she purred at him like a cat before gasping. He wanted to learn what she liked, what she wanted and found unknown pleasure in smelling and tasting her lust when he kissed his way down her stomach. 

His treatment stoked a new fire in her middle, and each of his kisses and touches made her dig her fingers into his hair, to make him move a little when he was close to a certain spot. 

He quickly understood her subtle commands, listening to her hisses and pleas, felt the movement of her hips and his own desire grow again. And before she got pushed over the edge by him, she reached for him and made him come to her mouth so she could kiss her own scent from his away, while turning with him, so he lay on his back. His hands on her hips, she found him again and he came up to her, kissing her throat, caressing her breasts while she moved fast in his lap, making him almost come before her. However useless he was with other women, he was not with her, and he knew where to touch her with the right amount of pressure to make her come undone while he held her, while he kept her safe - whispering her name over and over again. 

“Clara, my Clara.”

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you enjoyed this one, it was not easy to write and I worked long on it, but I think I stayed true to this story and to Randall. 
> 
> Next Chapter will probably come next week, so stay tuned, Thanks for the read and leave a comment if you like!


	20. 20_Revelations I

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Certain words can change everything.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Did I mention in one of my comments, that I feel about this story like I feel about a rollercoaster? You know, you step in and sit down and it goes up and up for like forever. And you think, well everything is fine, oh bit high maybe, ah but fine. But you know something is coming, the peak and then it goes down again, and as longer you sit there you know, that it must happen soon, and then you reach the top and for a moment everything stays still and then.. it goes down. And to the left and the right and then there is maybe a loop and you lose orientation for a second and… well what I want to say is; for 19 Chapters we sat there going up, and now it’s time for going down.

“I love you.”

Randall, wearing his holey jumper and his pajama pants, was having a spoon full with risotto in his mouth, which Clara had made after they had noticed they both were very hungry, stopped with everything and looked at her with wide open eyes. She leaned against the counter, digging in her own risotto, with a cautious smile, before shrugging slightly with one of her shoulders and shoving the spoon in her mouth as if she just had made a remark over the taste of the food. And for a split second he considered that she had said, “I love the risotto,” but he was pretty sure, that was not what she had said.

“Did you…?”

“Yes,” she laughed nervously, and when he made no intention of saying something she went on. “I know… it’s not the best moment... maybe. But hear me out. I mean it. I really do. I love you. Not a very romantic moment over eating risotto, but I think I shouldn’t have said it earlier because then you would have thought, I had said it in a haze or something, and you would maybe think, that I didn’t mean it. But I do and I said that already, and I just wanted you to know. And I thought about saying it later, but why wait, when I am sure and now I don’t know what to say, and I am babbling and would you please interrupt me before I -”

“- And breathe.”

Clara took in a deep breath, “Thanks, and sorry.”

He placed his plate aside, stepping up to her and waited till she had placed her plate onto the counter, “Clara, I-”

“-No, don’t say you love me.”

One of his eyebrows raised over the rim of his glasses and Clara smirked over the confused face he made. “I not wanted to say it - yet, but… you don’t want me to say it?”

“I mean, don’t say it when you feel obliged. Don’t say the words, only because I said it, and you think you have to pay me back,” she fumbled with the hem of his jumper. “It’s not that I will not believe you, but please, only say it when you truly mean it and you are sure. Because I couldn’t take the disappointment.”

“I would never disappoint you,” he made her face him and as an answer she threw herself around him, pressing her cheeks against his chest, listening to his heart.

“Not on purpose. I know you don’t say things lightly. Not _‘I love you’_ not anything else, and I wanted you to know, that it is okay for me, when you wait saying it. It’s even okay when you never say it. Just.. don’t say it lightly.”

Stroking her back, he held her tight, thinking about her words, while she listened to his heartbeat. She was right in the end, he never said things like this lightly, he never had, and never would. Her words had surprised him, it was nothing he had expected from her. Clara, the woman that liked control, gave in, with words with such meaning. Holding her in his arms, he sensed, she might had received this words once from a man, rash, but she had believed him, and in the end he had taken the words away again. What would do that with someone? With her? And he felt angry about the unknown person in her past life, angry somebody had hurt her.

“Your heart,” she then whispered. “It beats so strong like there are two of it.”

He smirked over her remark, taking her chin in his hand to make her face him, “That’s impossible, but I like the thought of it.” It was her who made his heart beat fast and hard and he couldn’t tell her, not now. “Thank you.”

“For what?”

“Everything,” he kissed her and Clara shoved her fingers under his jumper what made him jump and squeal a bit. “Very cold hands, Miss Oswald, very cold hands.”

She snickered, finished her risotto and then left to the living room, “Can we listen to some music?”

“Whatever you like,” he called from the kitchen and cleaned the plates.

When he had finished he followed her in the living room, some classical music on, and found her on the sofa browsing through a big picture book, “Found something interesting?”

“I saw this book, about the Croatian war, and,” her hand brushed over one of the pages that showed a grieving family, “as you said you were part of it, I… I wanted to take a look. I hope it is okay?”

He sat aside her, his arm around her shoulders, looking at the pages she turned, “It was a dark time there in the 90s.”

On a sunny day in 2001 he had discovered the book by accident in a nice little bookshop in London. He was not keen on remembering everything he had witnessed in Croatia, but the book was a good reminder and had also a picture in it, he knew very well. He had been there when it was taken. And when Clara was about to turn the page to come to the picture, he held his breath.

Clara only watched the picture for a few seconds, her hand smoothing the glossy paper a bit to ease out the reflection from the lamp aside them, and then turned the page again and so he let out a audible sigh.

“Yes, it was,” she closed the book again, eyeing him as if to ask if he was okay. He took the book from her, and brought it back to the shelf.

“If you are interested in more, I have a good historical book about it,” his eyes searched for the named book, but he couldn’t find it. “Somewhere. Probably in my office.”

“Yes,” she turned around, lying her arms onto the rest and her chin onto her arms, looking at the sideboard with wandering thoughts. She was just a child, when the Yugoslav Wars had happened. Her father always had read the news article, shaking his head over the situation and all the bad things that had happened there at the time. “My dad was always very interested in it.” Her eyes stopped by an empty spot on the sideboard - something was missing. “What happened to the wooden box?”

Randall still searching for the book, turned around on his heels, first looking at Clara then to the empty spot on the furniture. “Uhm,.. it broke.”

“It broke?” she turned around again, frowning.

“Yes, it was old and I wanted to clean it and it fell down and … broke,” he made a dismissive hand gesture.

“Oh.”

Randall returned to the sofa, “Oh? It was just an old box.”

“Mh,” she hummed, leaning her head against his shoulders, yawning. For a reason she couldn't say why it bothered her that the box was broken and gone. Also she was way too tired to bother right now. “I am tired.”

“Let’s go to bed, we stand up early and I drive you home, for getting your markings,” he grabbed her wrists and pulled her up.

It must have been in the middle of the night when Clara woke up, finding a softly snoring Randall on his chest, one of his hands resting on her arm, as if he wanted to be close to her even when he was asleep. She smiled and scooted out of the bed, sitting at the edge for a bit. It was not unusual for her to wake up, sometimes she did because she was thirsty and after all it was a new place for her.

Randall had felt the shifting in the bed, “You’re alright?” he mumbled, ready to go back to sleep, when she would confirm.

“Yes, I just need to drink something,” she brushed her hand through his hair. “Go back to sleep.”

She left the door ajar and walked to the kitchen to find a glass in a cupboard and filled it with water from the tap. The cold kitchen floor made her shiver, and she rubbed her bare feet on her trousers and left into the living room, where it was warmer and the floor was laid out with carpet. Turning on the little lamp aside the sofa, she sat down and noticed she wasn’t really thirsty, but she knew she had woken up for a reason, she just couldn’t figure out why.

Placing the glass on the table she turned around again, like she had done earlier, eyeing the empty spot on the sideboard. She remembered it didn’t look that fragile, but one never knew. Things break, she thought, turning again and her eyes locked with the bookshelf finding something that bothered her more than her need for more sleep. A gap, a gap that hadn’t been there before.

Why was there this feeling again, that something wasn’t right, something was itching inside her, itching her heart and teasing her curiosity. Stepping closer she knew that a book was missing and she knew which one. The picture book about Croatia and the war. One of her fingers reached out to touch the spot.

“Clara?” Startled she jumped around, finding Randall standing by the sofa. Clara looked at him, and asked herself why he looked so wide awake, why his eyes were wide and attentive staring at her, only twitching for a quick glance behind her to the bookshelf. “Yes?”

She decided to play with open cards, “The book, it’s missing. I was wondering, where it had gone.”

He looked at her very stern and worried before his mask broke and he chuckled, “Oh, I took it. It’s in my bag. I wanted to take it with me for my students. When you took it out, I remembered it might be a good example for photographic journalism.”

“Ah,” she nodded, scolding herself that she hadn't thought about that possibility.

Randall walked over to his bag and held up the flap. “Do you need it?”

She could see the book in his bag, and she thought that she wanted to take a look inside again, for an unknown reason, but it was two o’clock at night and it was probably nothing, and so she waved at it. “No, let’s go back to bed.”

And so the night passed and the next day and also the next few days. They shared lunch and dinners and the nights together, making love to each other, enjoying their company while it slowly became spring in Glasgow.

Randall’s long built walls slowly melted down when he lay in Clara’s arms and she told him about the next chapter she had read of the travel guide he had given her. He mostly listened, because he liked her soothing voice, liked the way her fingertips dug into his hair to ruffle it and the stories she told him about school or her mom.

It was not easy for her to make him talk, he was very eloquent and knew how to phrase his words as if they resulted in questions all by accident and she needed a while to notice his behaviour.

“You always do this, you make me talk so you don’t have to.”

“I like your stories,” he smirked over it.

“No, you _like not_ telling me _your_ stories,” she turned away from him, playing a sorehead. “Why do you don’t like talking about your past? You still haven’t told me anything about Sofia.”

They were in his office and he shoved his hands into the pockets of his trousers to fight down the urge to check for his tie. “You said you not wanted to know.”

“I said,” she crossed her arms looking over to his desk, where the picture stood, “you should tell me when you trust me.”

One of his hands found daylight again, rubbing at the edge of his desk for a bit, “Are you angry?”

“I am … wondering,” she pressed out. “You never talk about the past, except for your father once.”

“So you want to know more about my past? Than ask me,” after all he reached for his tie and smoothed the label of his jacket down.

Clara laughed up sarcastically, “I ask you and you are going to tell me, but you not going to tell me out of free will?”

“When you ask me, you will get an answer and that is my free will,” he protested unsure how they got into the argument. “Do we have an argument now? Are we there now, having arguments instead of a nice time together?”

“Oh, don’t do this!” she snapped at him. “I am an English major, I know how words work too, Mister! Don’t twist them! I think you know exactly what I mean.”

He couldn’t hold her glare and looked down to his desk, shoving one of the wooden elephants around, “I am not used to talk about the past. There were times I wanted to talk with someone else about the past,” she could see him look over to the picture. “In the end it was all heartbreaking and painful. And then I never met anyone more to talk about the past, till you strolled into my life. I… it is complicated.”

“Is it?”

“For me it is,” he stepped closer but stopped before reaching her.

“It feels, as if you don’t trust me,” Clara walked up to him, taking his hand.

Randall looked long at her, at her fingers holding his hand. She had said the words, the one words that would ever matter to him. She deserved better, he thought. He was a coward and Clara didn’t deserve a coward.

“We need to talk,” Clara’s head shot up, his voice sounded grave and breathy. Instinctively she let go of his hand and stepped back a bit. He would hurt her. Now. She sensed it with all her being. Now was the moment he would tell some made up reason why it wouldn’t work out with them. He frightened her. Wrapping her arms around herself she tried to prepare for the countless possibilities.

“Do you remember the letters I receive? I know you noticed that I receive on regular basis letter from another person,” he slowly began.

“Yes, I do,” quickly she recalled the two times she had have the letters in hand.

“Do you remember the name?”

“Uh, yes, Lix Storm. Catchy name,” she laughed, all nervous on the inside. “Why?”

This wasn’t easy for him. Not at all, but he should have done that weeks ago. Randall stepped to his locker, opened the door and pulled out a book he gave to Clara. It was the book that had been missing in his shelf at home, when she had been awake late at night.

“You said, you wanted to show it to your student,” Clara’s arms raised automatically.

“Yes, I said that,” he shortly grabbed his neck, before holding his wrists in front of him.

“Why was it then in your locker?” the book felt heavy as a stone in her hands and she feared his answer, knowing it would make it even heavier.

His lips opened, but no sound came out, instead they trembled and he needed a few moments to make the words sound, “I lied.”

The words hit her like a bat and her head shook hectically as if to clear her thoughts, as if to clear off his words out of her consciousness. It didn’t work of course. “What?” it was only a whisper.

“Page 52,” he said, pointing out to the book and unable to stand her sad eyes longer than a few seconds. “Please, open it.”

“Can’t you just-”

“-Please,” it was a beg. And so she did, opening the book up, to find one of the pictures she already knew. First she didn’t know why she should look at this particular picture, but then she saw it, and she remembered why she had woken up in the middle of the night, what had bothered her. Not the picture, but the name in the corner of the page. Lix Storm.

Randall walked back to his locker again, knowing what now would come, would damage maybe everything. The wooden box. Hidden in his locker. He placed it on the sofa and opened it. Filled with letters. With many Wednesdays.

The book fell with a noise to the floor. Crumpling pages, and paper that got ripped. Clara didn’t hear it, while it was pain in Randall ears.

“You lied,” Clara needed to cover her mouth with her hands. “You lied about the book, you lied about the box and you never said something about these letters.”

“Yes, that’s all correct,” he trembled, his body disobeyed him and trembled in fear and anticipation. “I receive letters from her, every week, since I left _the Hour_.”

Clara walked up to the box, calculating in her head how many letters there must be. She couldn’t yet understand everything but she had a very good idea what this was all about. “Do you want me to read them?”

He kept quiet, only making a gesture that she was allowed when she wanted. The damage was done, so Clara pushed her senses aside and took the envelope on top and pulled out the letter. Like the address everything was hand written. She tried to ignore it, but there was a fading scent of perfume on it.

_‘Dear Randall,_

_these days I miss the times we had back in Croatia. Can you still hear the gunfire sometimes? I can. It remembers me when we shared the nights together, and you used to kiss me with your whiskey tasting lips. ‘_

Clara had to force herself to read on, but only managed to skim through the text, her eyes hurrying through the words to prevent her from any further damage but it didn’t help to hide words like _‘kissing’_ and _‘love’_ , not even her tears could hide the affection the letters were written with.

_‘Love. Lix’_

She cried and it was his fault. “Clara…”

“No!” she threw the letter back and stepped away from him, holding up her hands. “Don’t! Don’t you dare coming closer!”

“Please, let me explain, it is not like it looks,” he knelt down to place the letter back into the box before closing it, and then reaching for the book, that was now damaged. He placed it on top of the box, still kneeling.

“Isn’t that what men like you always say?” she spit in her sorrow and the words made him stand up quickly.

“What do you mean, men like me?” he was about to lose her.

“I think you very well know,” she sniffled, and brushed over her nose with the back of her hand, not caring how it must look. There was too much anger.

“It is not like it looks, you must believe me, Clara! I wanted to explain you everything, that’s why I showed you the book and the letters,” he tried to stay calm, but on the inside he was collapsing.

“I don’t care!” she called out. “It’s obvious, isn’t it?”

“What is?”

“That you love her!”

And there was no objection and no stopping by him. There was only silence and that was answer enough for her.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you still there, guys? How this will go on, I'll tell you next week. So long!


	21. 21_Revelations II

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> There is a story, we haven't heard yet.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> One week is over, guys, and I am so proud of you, you all did it so perfectly, after I have let you behind with such an end. I am not sure if this chapter will end better.. you have to find out on your own. And also sorry, some Anon asked if I could give the thing Chapter titles. I started to work some out but it is so hard. I'll try to come up with some , I have not forgotten!

_“That you love her.”_

_And there was no objection and no stopping her, by him. There was only silence and that was answer enough for her._

Randall stood in the middle of the room, his right hand clutching to his upper thigh, his feet urging him to step forward, but he was like hamstrung. It didn’t matter what he would say, Clara wouldn’t believe him, not now in her rage and in her anger and her… her disappointment. He had done, what he had hoped he would never do.

“Yes,” he said with certainty and it scared not only Clara that it sounded cold and distant.

Her stomach cramped, “So I am right, you love her.”

“I _did_ love her.”

Clara didn’t know why she was still there in his office, listening to him. She should have taken her bag and should have left the moment he had came around with this box full of love letters.

“And that I shall believe?” she had been able to pull herself together again, still shaken on the inside, shattered. “Aren’t these…,” she pointed in disgust out to the box, “... love letters?”

“There are just letters,” Randall answered thin lipped. 

While Clara was all showing her temper and her emotions, he stood there, not doing anything. No wild whirling around with his hands, no fiddling with his tie and no yelling and roaring. There was only his hand, done to a fist the moment Clara had asked him, if he was in love with Lix. He pressed his hand so hard together, that his fingernails dug into his flesh and his thumb hurt and when he had lost all feelings in it. He opened the hand up, with a stinging pain, that only showed on his face with a short twitch of his mouth and his left eye.

“They don’t read like _just_ letters, Randall!”

“But they are,” he said dryly.

“Mh,” she shook her head in frustration. “... _and you used to kiss me with your whiskey tasting lips._ ”

“That’s my past, Clara!” it finally broke out of him. “Shall I apologize for it? You were a little kid, when I was with her and you dare judging me for it?” He knew in an instant, that he had chosen the wrong words. Clara punished him immediately by grabbing her bag and made her way to the door.

“Go to hell!”

“I didn’t mean it!” he made quick strides to the door, reaching out for her but not touching her. “I didn’t! I am sorry. That was a stupid thing to say. Don’t … they are letters, not more. I promise!”

Clara didn’t know what to do with it, with him. It was his private matter, somehow. She really tried to respect this. The letters, this woman, Lix, she never had heard of all this before. But the picture that had been painted in the last twenty minutes, was clear, wasn’t it?

For a moment she wished, they never had crossed the line they had balanced around for month.

Why now?

“You receiving letters from a woman, I don’t know, and that for how long? Years? And I could accept it, when you wouldn’t have made such a mystery out of it. I don’t expect us to share all secrets with each other, but it just looks like you still love her. And if this is so, you better tell me, because I don’t have time for this.”

“For what exactly?”

“For not even having a chance to get into your heart.” A confession, that made him lost for words. “I care for you Randall, I really do. We are having dates, we have slept together - thats a big deal. It is for me at least.”

“For me too,” he said quietly, but urging.

“Is it? Because frankly, it looks like your heart is somewhere else, and if this is so, then you should tell me.”

A pause rose between them, and Randall tried to bring his racing mind to the same. He was confused and knew he had made a mistake. He was good in making mistakes and not so good in having relationships, that he had proofed once again this day.

“What if it would be somewhere else, what then?”

How could that man, never answer a question straight? Journalists were worst than politicians. Clara was on the edge with her patience.

“What kind of question is this?” she snapped. “You not interrogating a scumbag politician, Randall, for a good headline. You are making a fool out of the woman, who said that she loves you, only a few days ago. But if this is what you want - an answer - then it is this; I think we should better say our goodbyes.”

He dwelled between the past and the now. Between the woman he had loved and the woman he was about to lose his heart to. His hand found his throat and there the knot of his tie. Three times he controlled the fit of it. Three times it didn’t satisfy him. The fourth time, he loosened the knot and pulled it out from under his waistcoat to bind it again. He knew it was not the right thing to do.

“Seriously?” she hissed in disbelieve.

“I just…,” he needed to do this now, with shaking hands.

“You know what? I think that is, enough as an answer,” she knew, she should let him do his tie, but it was enough for her. An obvious sign, that his heart was not in the room with her. Clara turned to the door. “Goodbye Randall.”

One end of the tie slipped through his nervous fingers and he knew he was unable to finish this and catch up with Clara on time. There was only one way to go, not both. He groaned in frustration, yanking the piece of silk violently from his neck to the ground and ran to the door, “Clara!”

She was already by the steps, when her name, covered in a deep scottish accent, stopped her. She turned around, to see him stand by his door, without the tie. The collar of his shirt in asymmetrie. It told her more, as he probably ever could with words.

“She is my backstory!” he called out. “She is ... Sofia’s mother,” he lowered his gaze, trying to find out if someone else could listen to the conversation.

In all her anger, it hadn’t came to her mind, not for a second that Lix Storm was the mother of Randall’s daughter. Before her inner eye, she had seen him, at the age of thirty, having a wild affair with this woman, while they both reported for the BBC about the war. That Sofia had a place in all this too, was beyond her imagination. Not that she had thought a lot about it, her mind had came up with a fuzzy story about him and a woman, having a baby girl and it died and they separated after it. Because things like that happened. It was plausible in her head, so why question it? Except this feeling, in the back of her heart that seemed to know, that even it was plausible, it maybe not was the truth.

“Will you please come back inside?” he stepped down the steps to her. “Let me at least explain before you make your goodbyes to me.”

Pondering on the spot between telling him to get lost and her own curiosity about the truth she decided for the curiosity and followed him back into his office. It maybe was for the better to hear all of the story, as if to leave now, and always and forever ask herself what really went wrong between them.

Without saying something, she sat herself down onto his sofa, hands in her lap, her eyes lingering by the tie on the ground before looking up to him. He closed the door and stepped into the middle of the room, the blue tie by his feet. The need to bent down, to collect it from the ground, almost unbearable.

Clara saw the expression in his eyes, the one he would give a poisonous snake, if by his feet. Before he could react, she jumped up, snatched the piece from the ground and placed it out of sight behind her back. Randall didn’t know if he should be shocked or if he should be grateful.

“As you know, Sofia is dead. She died when she was about two years old, that is why there are no other pictures,” he turned to his desk. “It is the only one I have. She died through a bomb in France after a terror attack - with her parents.”

Clara’s back arched up over the words, her forehead frowning at the words she didn’t yet understood, “I thought … I don’t understand.”

“As you may have figured out yet, I met Lix in Croatia. She was ... is a photojournalist. She took pictures for the BBC while I wrote the articles. We had an affair in 1992 for a few month. It were dark times and we found each other between gunfire, alcohol and dead.” Randall needed to stop for a moment, while flashes of gunfire, music and a faint smell of whiskey chased through his head.

“She got pregnant,” Clara concluded, making him to go on.

“Yes,” he nodded, moving his lips to make them speak, but it was hard to tell the truth, that still hurt in a dark spot of his heart. “I asked her to marry me, but she declined. Marriage was not an option for her. It would have been like putting a wild animal behind bars, she told me,” he had the scene still in mind as if it had happened yesterday. Lix Storm, the open minded, free spirit. He had loved her, and aside they never shared the words, he assumed she had loved him too, but it was maybe doomed from beginning. There were and are still so different. It would have been impossible for him to keep her in the marriage even she had said yes. Quickly it had dawned on him, that she had saved both of them time, trouble and their already hurt hearts, with not marrying him. “I left her.”

“You left her?” It was hard for Clara to understand him in this moment. Imagining a young Randall, round her age, experience a war, a gone wrong love affaire and making mistakes. While she never had left the british islands, and the worst relationship she had was with John, who had told her one night he loved her only to leave her shortly after it, Randall had already lived more at her age, than she probably ever would.

“I was young, I was stupid and I was full of discontentment. I didn’t know how to handle her. She not wanted a baby and she not wanted to stop working. And I was all the same. Lix send me away in a scene and because I was good with making mistakes, I left. Lix left to Spain for a job and I returned later to London.

“She gave birth to Sofia in Spain and after a year, she gave her up for adoption, because she couldn’t go back to London as a single mother. She wanted to make a career and she thought Sofia would be better with a loving family.

“Sofia came to a pair that couldn’t have kids and they adored her. They left to France later, where they all died.

“When I worked for The Hour a few years ago, I only took the job, because I knew Lix was there. After coming to senses after a while, after the birth, I tried to find Sofia, not knowing what had happened. Even Lix didn’t know.

“I tried to find her on my own, doing researches and everything. What was hard because Lix and I didn’t talk with each other and I couldn’t find her without the birth certificate. Long story short, I convinced her to help me and we found her record over the Spanish embassy.”

Randall hadn’t moved from his spot, not an inch. His voice had been steady, and he had presented the story without a tremble or a tear. Years of training, of barricading up behind a wall. Keeping away the emotions, not letting them out, always playing the perfect human being. The truth was, Clara saw right through him. Saw the father, looking for his daughter. Saw the man, regretting his mistake. Saw the human being, knowing he never would get a second chance.

“Years of lying awake at four in the morning, musing if she asked herself about her real parents and who they are,” he locked eyes with Clara for a moment, “wasted. Shortly after that I left London again. We tried to cope with the situation - together,” he made a hand gesture should tell her, that they tried to get back together, like in Croatia.

Bring back the feelings and the love that was still there, but buried under misconducts, misunderstandings and years of denying. It didn’t work out long, only grief kept them together, and when it slowly faded, they both realized it shouldn’t be. Sometimes love couldn’t be, no matter how much there was.

“Lix went back to Spain, drinking down her grief,” he sighed long, shoving one hand into his pockets, before stepping up to Clara holding out his hand, not for contact, but for the tie. She reached behind her and gave it to him, her fingertips slightly brushing against his. “I really loved her,” he placed the band around his neck, “and I wish I would have chosen differently 30 years ago, but that’s a waste of time.”

“What about the letters?”

“I don’t answer them, except for Christmas and her birthday,” he finished the tie and tucked it under his waistcoat again. “I don’t know why she writes me. It’s her... her way of making me remember. I didn’t sent the letters back and she never stopped sending me some. Like a string,” his hands formed a gap in the air, “we couldn’t cut.”

“Why didn’t you tell me earlier?”

“I wanted, and then I got scared,” he chuckled. “I never planned to ever get involved with a woman again. And then, you came along, and you made an impression on me. You made me drink coffee with you and made me take you out to dinner and you made me happy again, you made me feel things I haven’t for a long time and that scared the hell out of me. I wanted to tell you, but then it was too late and I knew the only thing that would happen was disappointment. I am sorry that I betrayed your trust, that I betrayed your words to me.”

She believed him, every word and saw the feeling he had for her. Words he couldn’t phrase, and that made her angry, “Would you stop me? When I leave now?”

His brows furrowed for a moment, “I… would you like me to stop you?”

“That’s not question, Randall,” she said in a tone that was like admonishing him, to make him think on his own. “It’s not about what I like and want and love, it’s what _you_ want to do. Would you stop me?” she emphasized each of the words.

“Clara, I,”he never ever had fought for someone. Not for Lix, maybe for Sofia when it was already too late. He had brought himself into danger, back in Croatia, for the story, for a greater good, as he always thought. He had been involved in discussion while working for the Hour, because of sensitive topics, and had said his opinion in a clear and strong voice. He had stood in for minorities, for right against wrong in a political way, but what he never had done, was standing up in his personal life.

Clara stepped back, in the room and in her demands, “Listen, I … I have to think. I call you okay?”

Would she call him? He had to trust her words. “Yes.”

Before she closed the door behind her, she turned around once more, “I still mean it. The words. I lo- … but there was damage. I hope you understand.”

He whispered an inaudible ‘yes’, feeling his heart ache. “I do.”

She closed the door, and right there, she wanted to turn around, and throw herself into his arms, to kiss him, to beg him for forgiving her, her stupid acting. But hadn’t he hurt her? Could she trust him? Clara always had trust issues, back since, the doctors had told her, her mum would be good, only to led her die after they had promised.

No, she needed to step away, look at the situation from the outside, what is hard, when one is right in the middle of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I am working and typing like a manic to finally finish Collide (we still have around 6 Chapters to go) and in case I'll wrap it up sooner or later I'll promise I'll post faster as usual, but for now, we'll see each other next week.


	22. 22_Will you trust me?

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes life is not going the way you want it to go.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As on tumblr promised, earlier as planned, the next chapter. Again, longer, but as it seems the next few chapters will all be pretty long - hope you don't mind.

Days passed. 

Clara tried to bring the workdays stoically behind her without thinking too much. Her students kept her busy, and for at least once she was thankful for it. When the weekend finally arrived she was somehow relieved and also afraid. Relieved, that she wouldn’t cross ways with Randall but afraid of the thoughts and worries she had, which now would take over while her head would not be busy with teaching. 

Randall went his way, did what he always did and spent considerable time down in the basement to watch his students take care about the weekly television report and the making of the newsletter. He knew he did Clara a favour not wandering around in the halls and also himself. Yet, he spent the mornings in his office, reading the newspapers, as he had always done, before Clara had shown up in his life, glancing up from the pages in hope she would come in - two coffees in hand. She didn’t. 

The conversation they had, followed her in her head wherever she went. 

_‘Would you stop me?’_

His reaction to it, was a pure disappointment to her. She hadn’t expected him to chase after her, whirl her in his arms to convince her of his feelings … his love maybe. That wouldn’t have been him, but his helpless reaction had saddened her. She couldn’t say if she had expected too much from him, she only knew it was all too much for her. There was no objectivity left. Reaching for her phone, she dwelt around for a minute till she decided to call the only true friend she had. Danny.

“Clara!”

“Hey,” she heard voices in the background. “I’m sorry, do I call in a bad moment? I can call tomorrow.”

“No, no,” the voices disappeared. “It’s the telly. I am home, waiting for Sissy, she wanted to come over before we leave to the cinema.”

“Oh, so… than I should call back tomorrow,” Clara didn’t understood if she disturbed him or not. It wouldn’t help her when he must need to end the call after ten minutes in.

“No, it’s fine. She’ll be not hear before an hour,” he reassured. “You know how girls are. What’s the matter? I am glad you called actually.”

“Why?”

“Every time I saw you last week, you seemed to be… somewhere else, and not in a good way.”

“Yeah,” a picture of Randall flickered up in her head. “The last few days were a bit … rough.”

Danny sensed that it was not about the job, “It’s the caledonian ghost, isn’t it?”

“Don’t call him that,” it surprised her that she still defended him. “Yes, it is.”

“You two had a fight?” it was not really a wild guess of him.

“Sort of,” Clara huffed, wriggling her slippers, that were two silly looking cat paws. 

“Sort of? Do I have to drag every word out of you,” she heard him shuffle around, possibly on the sofa, “or are you simply gonna tell me the story?” 

And so she told him the story. About the dates they had and that they had spent considerable time together. She told him about the _‘risotto moment’_ and also about the letters and the book and their last conversation a few days ago. 

Danny listened thoughtful, never interrupted just hummed or said something like, “I understand.”

Clara ended her speech with, “So, what do you think?”

Danny laughed, “So, you asking me for an advice?”

“Of course I do!” she blurted out. “You are my best friend. And actually my only friend. What doesn’t mean you are only my best friend because you are my only friend. Of course you are my best friend for other reasons and-”

“-I get it!” he quickly said.

“Sorry, I didn’t know what to do. All the thoughts and…,” she pressed her forehead onto her knees, she hugged with one arm. “I don’t know what to do.”

“Do you love him? I mean, do you still love him after all this?”

“It’s not a feeling you press a button for, Danny,” she stared out of the window, watching how the darkness slowly overcame the light. “And, I didn’t said it lightly. I meant it. But I can’t say if he has any feelings for me.”

“It’s obvious that he has, isn’t it? He showed you the letters and told you about this other woman and how he is connected with her. Aside I don’t see him as a womanizing liar,” Danny snickered for a moment. “I would like to suggest, that, in case he wouldn’t care, he never had brought himself the trouble of telling you about all this.”

Clara thought about it for a while before answering, “He probably wouldn’t have. But he lied, and how can I be sure, that he won’t lie to me in the future?”

“That’s the thing with relationships, with love and everything,” Danny sighed. “You can’t control everything, Clara. You can’t foresee everything, it’s impossible. Sometimes the only thing you can do is believe in the person you choose to love. Trust them, believe that they want your good.”

“Actually, when did you get so wise Mister Pink?” Clara smiled into the phone and could hear him laugh back.

“Like everyone else,” he stated. “With having a very bad day earlier. Sleep over it, Clara. What I can say out of experience and out of watching way too many romantic movies is, that when you wake up tomorrow morning, still wanting him, missing him, and loving him, it probably will not change soon. But you must be willing to forgive him. If you can’t forgive, you have to move on.”

“What would I do without you?” 

“You would figure it out by yourself, because you are a smart woman,” Danny grinned, and she could hear him stand up. “I simply saved you a bit of time. Listen, Sissy is coming home…”

“It’s fine. You helped me a lot. Say hi to her, will you? And have fun!” she smiled, envying him for his sweet and healthy relationship in this moment. 

“Take care, goodnight, Clara.”

Clara placed her phone back on the table, and reached for the glass of wine, she had placed there earlier. Danny was right, Randall hadn’t told her about Lix and the letters and the book, when he only would have been interested in sleeping with her. When he considered her a short affair. She tried to understand him, put herself into his shoes. He was not an easy character and not one for having a lot of relationships. The last he probably had was back in London, and she couldn’t imagine the time he had spent with Lix there as healthy and sweet. 

Two grown ups, two parents, finally knowing that their daughter had died years ago, clutching on each other while swimming in a sea of grief and guilt and missed chances. What Randall likely hadn’t told her, was that they were both drowning and were hoping that one could save the other. A disastrous scenario. Sooner or later they would had destroyed each other and so it must have been the wisest decision of Randall to leave London again. Painful but wise. 

 

##

On a Tuesday morning, Clara woke up, long before the time. Her sleep pattern had suffered since she had told Randall to get in contact. For an absurd reason, she had hoped, she would stop thinking about him. Like pressing a button, that would delete all her feelings for him - what of course didn’t happen. At night she woke up, reaching for the empty spot aside her. No, there was no escape, she loved him, and wanted to be with him. 

She took a long shower, and then walked, without taking the bus, to the university. On her way, she felt her phone buzz, and saw it was her step mother. Not in the mood to talk with her right now, she ignored the call. It was not unusual for Linda to call her sometimes. Mostly to scold her for not coming over, for asking her why she had no boyfriend or simply for complaining about her dad. They had not the best relationship, but since she lived in Glasgow - a good excuse for not coming over - it had gotten better a bit. 

It was seven thirty in the morning when she reached Randall’s office. Clara felt her heart beat in her throat and felt her stomach turn, but she knew she needed to do this. Talk to him, face her fears, face him and make him talk. The office was empty, but open, and so she decided to wait outside. He would come back eventually. 

Not able to stay or sit still, she paced around in the little corner where his office was. What if he had decided it was better for him and her not to be with her again? What then? Could she just go on, working here, with the given possibility to see him in the halls every day, reminding her about her feelings for him? She trembled and wanted to throw up and most of all, she wanted to run away. 

“Get yourself together!” she whispered to herself, closing her eyes to concentrate on her breathing. “Why didn’t you eat something? Idiot!” 

“Clara?” Randall’s soft, worried voice made her inhale sharply and jump on the spot. Her eyes hurt because of the sudden light that landed in her pupils. 

He stood by the corner, toward the steps, on hand on the small wall, that served as railing, looking at her as he would see a ghost.

The picture he gave was not the best. The suit was fine, sharp and clean and hid over the fact, that something was not alright with him. The most obvious was the stubble in his face. He must have trimmed it that day at his throat, but it was still unusual for him and must be a sign of his disastrous inner life at the moment. Clara gave him a cautious smile. 

“Randall,” god, she even had missed to say his name. 

Hesitating he walked up to his door, not leaving her with his eyes, afraid she would vanish then. He wanted to ask a question, at least say something, but all the usual, polite questions, didn’t work for him. To ask her how she was, sounded to mockingly for him. He saw the black lines under her eyes, saw the way her hair was done. With no strength to put effort in it. Women didn’t do their hair, men didn’t shave, a smile flickered over his face. “Do you want to come in?”

After fearing he might would sent her away immediately, she felt relieve and nodded, “Yes. I would like to come in.”

Randall opened the door for her and let her in first, smelling her scent when she past him. The same scent hanging in his pillows and blankets at home, he hadn’t washed for a while because it was the only thing left of her in his apartment. The need to have the scent, even it was now only faint and probably only his imagination, was stronger as the torturing feeling inside of him, to finally clean the sheets. 

Clara walked up to his desk, facing the window, giving herself a moment to find strength and courage and hope that everything would be alright again. When she finally turned around, Randall still looked at her, clenching his jaw. 

“I wanted to talk to you,” she started and wondered, that she hadn’t rehearsed one second of this. “I-” 

Randall stopped her. “-I know, I deserve a smack in the face and a shout,” he broke eye contact for a moment, a sign that he was all so willing to submission himself to her in this moment.

Clara’s brows arched. “Yes, you do,” the thought had came to her short before she had entered his office, of course she wouldn’t have said it, and was now all so surprised that it came from him.

His head shook a few times from the left to the right and back, “You can shout at me all you want, I deserved it,” his voice was rasp. “But if there is any possibility to avoid the smack in the face, I would be happy to grab it.”

Clara couldn’t say if he was joking, if he was daring or simply meant it. “Are you mocking me? Do you think I wouldn’t do it?”

“I am not mocking you, and of course you would do it,” he held her gaze, but his shoulders winced slightly by the thought of her slapping his face. “You are all fire inside you, Clara. That’s why I…” his eyes flickered to her shoes, hoping to find his lack of courage there.

“That’s why? What?”

Again his tongue had been faster as his mind, and now he struggled for words to replace three meaningful words with others, “That’s why... I adore you.”

“Oh.” How ridiculous relationships can be. How strange and filled with wrong assumptions and misunderstandings. Funny, how words, beautiful and honest, in a certain moment never could be enough.

“Oh?”

“I... I thought you would say something else,” she frowned, mostly at herself. Over false hopes that had arisen for a few seconds. 

Randall saw it, and knew what she had expected to hear from him, “You said, it would be okay for you when I take my time.”

She felt foolish again, and felt how she was about to lose her control to him again, “I didn’t come, for you telling me something. I came for telling you something.”

“I am sorry,” why did he apologize? Why did she react so to his try to open up? He was willing, couldn’t she see? His low esteem presented him an answer. “Well, I am glad you came. It’s rare, that people show up, to tell the other, that they have moved on. I appreciate this.”

“What? No, Randall,” she smiled over his thoughts. “I am not here to tell you, that I moved on.”

“No?”

Clara tried to read his expression, what kind of _‘no’_ it was, he had given. “Did you? Move on? Because, then I … maybe,”

“I didn’t move on!” he said quickly. 

They felt like two dumb teenagers unable to phrase their feelings for each other. A relieved smile played over Randall’s lips, but he was still anxious, unsure if she was still willing to be with him.

“We need to talk about this, about you and me, and Lix and your daughter, about what has happened,” she began to word her concerns.

“I know,” he nodded fast. “Yes.”

“I want to understand you, but I can’t when you don’t talk to my about all this. You should have told me from the beginning. I would have understand.”

“I tried, and I wanted, but…,” he didn’t know what to say.

“It’s hard to open up to someone, I know that all too well. You probably had some rough times in your life and in your relationships, but that’s only guessing, you need to tell me. Help me understand. You need to trust me.”

“I do trust you,” he reassured. “It’s all so new and hard and I am afraid, afraid of losing you, scare you away.”

She smirked and walked up to him, “Damn, Randall Brown, hasn’t anyone told you, that I am not easy to scare?” she reached out to him, touching his cheek and his scruff and he slightly leaned into her touch, covering her hand with his. 

“Did you really thought, I moved on?”

“Yes, I did, “ she took his hand, holding it between them. “Because sometimes I don’t know what to make of you. You and your fine, sharp suits,” she tucked at his lapels, “and those glasses, it’s all hiding, isn’t it? You’re hiding yourself behind your mannerisms, the correctness and your distance. Sometimes it’s so hard to push through, to see through.”

“Oh, Clara,” he squeezed her hands, feeling how he had missed her the last days. How her presence made him to light up, and shooed away the dark thoughts that were around him, “Even you say you don’t see, you are looking right through me. Everything you say, is right. It’s a wall, a safety zone. But you change me, not in the obvious way, but you do. You change the man I am, you make me better,” he gently stroke her cheeks. “You actually see me. Yes, Lix changed me too, but she didn’t make me better. Instead we both made each other worse. With you this is all so different.”

Clara watched his hands entangle with hers again, keeping quiet. 

Randall huffed, searching for the right thing to say, “I want to work this out. I want you, to know me. And to understand me. I will tell you everything you want to know, I’ll promise.”

“Do you say this because you really want to share your past and your thoughts with me, or only because you fear I’ll leave you, if you don’t say it?”

“Admitting; the thought of opening up, right now is very terrifying, but I am willing to do this with you. For you. But, there is something you have to understand too.”

“What is it?”

“I can’t erase my past. I maybe can Lix make stop writing, but I am connected with her, because of Sofia. This will always be, and you have to accept it,” he squeezed her hands for a short moment. “That’s the only thing I beg from you, because if you can’t then-”

His eyes fell shut, when she grabbed for his arms to make him bow down to kiss him. Randall groaned over the surprise, his hands still caught between their bodies. Clara brought her hands around his neck, tilting her head to catch more of him, and he freed his arms and embraced her as well, responding into the tender kiss. 

“I can deal with this,” Clara broke the kiss, not moving away to far, and keeping her eyes closed. Randall did the same, listening to her words, while their wild gone breath clashed between them together. “And also, I want to go to Paris with you, to learn how to make sufflés,” she felt he wanted to back away to look at her, but she didn’t let him. “Together.”

“Together?” 

“Yes, that’s a synonym for you and me.”

Randall chuckled, taking her face into his hands, “I would love to do this - together.” He leaned in for another kiss and she closed the gap again, this time kissing him with passion. Tasting his lips and tongue, everything she had missed the last days. Had missed his attentive hands on her body, his gentle stroking till she had fallen asleep, after he had made her body shudder in lust and love, uttering his name. 

“Will you come to my place tonight, and we talk? We talk this all through. About the letters, and Sofia and everything there is. We need to sort this out.”

“I do anything you want, Clara.”

“You don’t have to do anything I want, you only have to trust me. That’s all I want.”

He stroke strands of hair out of her face, kissing her forehead, “Clara, my Clara. Have I ever told you, that you are the best, that ever has happened to me?”

She pressed herself against his chest, her nose buried in his suit, taking in his scent, “I love how you say my name.”

“And how do I say it?” he smirked into her hair, nuzzling it.

“It’s probably your accent, the Scottish wrapping,” she beamed at him, bit by bit letting go of him, knowing any time someone could come in. 

Randall hummed, gazing down at her, “Clara. Clara, Clara,... Clara.” He loved saying her name and it made him happy she loved to hear it out of his mouth.

Then there was a knock on the door and Randall frowned, he didn’t expect anyone, not even Freddy. He glanced at Clara and when she nodded he called, “Come in!”

It was Sissy Cooper, who poked her head into the room, clearly looking for something, someone, “Good morning,” she greeted and stepped fully inside. “I’m sorry Mister Brown, I was looking for Miss Oswald. Clara, your stepmother has called the office.” 

“My stepmother?” Clara remembered the phone call in the morning, now fumbling for her phone. 

“Yes, she was really urgent that I tell you, you should call her back - immediately,” Sissy went on, worried lines on her face. Before going on she exchanged a look with Randall who sensed something bad had happened. “I think it is about your dad.”

Clara started to shake, anticipating bad news. She had five missed calls on her phone, she had put it on silent, after Linda’s first try. 

Sissy excused herself and vanished again. Randall saw how Clara nervously pressed the button to call her stepmother back. 

“Shall I leave you alone?”

“No, please…,” she reached out without touching him. Randall stayed where he was watching her, how she waited impatiently for someone answering the phone. Then it seemed someone had picked up.“Linda! What is it?”

Randall could not hear much, only scraps of the conversation. Words that indicated, that Linda had awaited a call from Clara for a while. 

“What is with dad?” Clara bit her lips, and her fingernails. Concentrating hard on what Linda told her on the phone. “What? When?”

Randall heard a mix of two voices on the phone, and Clara shook her head at it, it was hard to understand anything. “Is this dad? Let me talk to him!”

There was something about “tests” and Randall concluded they brought her father away, and so she was not allowed to talk to him right now. Clara kept silent for a while, nodding, and glancing down at the clock a few times. 

“Oh god, yes, of course,” she began to pace nervously up and down. “Uhm.. I can be there in the evening. Yes, I call. Tell him, I love him. Bye.”

Clara almost dropped her phone, while she already thought about all the things she had to do. Tell Nicola that she needed to take off for the week, tell Glen, he had to cover her classes, had to pack and somehow she had to find out which train would leave as soon as possible toward London. “I...I need to…”

“Clara!” Randall stepped up to her, placing his hands on her arms, to calm her. “Everything will be fine.”

“Dad, god, I…”, it was all too much for her. “Dad had a heart attack in the night. Linda says he is doing okay, but she wants me to come over… just in.. just in case, I guess.” Then she began sobbing. Her dad was too young to die, not after her mum had died so early. “God, Randall, what do I do?”

“Hey, come here!” he pulled her into a hug and tears started to spill down her cheeks. “Is there anything I can do for you?”

“I don’t know, I need to take off for a week or two, and I have to go home, pack my stuff,” she let go off him, brushing her hair out of her face, taking deep breathes to get control over herself again. “I need to find out when the next train goes to London, I said I will be there in the evening.”

Clara was clearly lost in this moment, she knew what she had to do, but she didn’t know how and in which order. 

“Listen,” Randall squeezed her shoulders to make her aware he was here with her, and would stay with her. “You go, find Nicola and Glen. I ask Miss Cooper, to find out at what time the trains leave. Then you come back, and I’ll drive you home, and then I’ll drive you to the train station.”

“I can’t-”

“Hush,” he placed a finger on her lips, smiling softly, then he reached into his pocket to hold out his handkerchief. “Of course you can. No arguing. I’ll make Freddy to take care of the daily business, he is all too eager anyway. ”

She took the piece and dried her tears, agreeing on his demand to driver her home. It would be faster anyway and a big help. So she went and told Nicola about the situation, and that she needed to have at least a week off. Glen was not very happy to hear about covering her courses, but he had no other choice, and Clara didn’t know who to pity more. Him or her students.

Sally provided quickly the timetable for the trains that went from Glasgow to London and after an hour, everything was dealt with and Randall shoved her with a kiss on her temple into the passenger seat and drove to her apartment. He offered her to wait in the car, but she pleaded him to come upstairs. Afraid of forgetting something, she knew she could rely on him and his precise mind. Unsure how to help her - it was not his to dug around in her wardrobe - he decided to make some sandwiches for her, so she had something to eat on her journey to London. 

Clara packed hectically everything she thought she needed and also what she wouldn’t need, it was simply to keep her hands busy while she figured out what she really needed. So it came, that Randall first frowned and then smirked over the teddy bear she had also packed and that sat on top of her bag. 

“I don’t know,” she looked down at the little plushie. “I guess I should leave him. Childish, isn’t it.”

“No, no, it’s good,” Randall took the bear out of her hand, and pushed him back into the bag. “It’s always good to have company.” He knew she had some plushies, some sort of momentums he guessed, and he had to admit he liked that she had them. He might didn’t understand why people kept these things - for him they were only things that gathered dust over the time, and that’s why he had none - but seeing Clara, relaxing when he had shoved the bear back into the bag, made him understand how good they were.

“I am so sorry,” she suddenly began. “All this, it was not supposed to happen, we wanted to talk and…”

“We talk, when you are back. This, your dad, is more important than I am,” they found each other in a hug again, and Randall took the chance to take in her scent once more. “It was not supposed to happen, but that is life and we will deal with it.”

“It’s not true,” she mumbled. “You are important. You are important to me.”

“And you are important to me, Clara Oswald. Very,” he whispered. 

Randall made sure she sat in the train, and kissed her goodbye, reassuring her that everything would turn out fine with her dad, and that she should give him a call in his office, when she arrived and would find the time. There it was the first time, that it angered him, that he possessed no mobile phone or a home phone. Freddy always found that very odd, as him being a journalist but not having a phone at home. 

_“I don’t need a phone, Freddy. I have you,”_ he tended to say, knowing his student was very well connected, would pick up the news quickly and would provide his teacher in the morning with it. 

Now it was different, but he would stay in his office till he knew she had reached London and the hospital safely. 

“Call me, I’ll stay in the office, it doesn’t matter how late it will be,” he wished he could go with her, to give her the comfort she needed right now. “When you come back, we’ll talk about us, so don’t worry about it. Focus on your dad. I’ll be still here in two weeks.”

“Thank you, Randall,” she leaned out of the open window of her compartment. “I am glad you stayed with me today.”

The train started slowly to move, and with a last squeeze of her hand he let go of her and saw the train and Clara leave. “I’ll see you in two weeks!”

They couldn’t know, it would come differently.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> As I am making good progress, I can imagine quite well that the next chapter is out next Friday. After you all were so patient and to refund the people who still read this story, I hope I can now post the chapters in shorter intervals.  
> See you (hopefully) on Friday. And of course; leave a comment if you like!


	23. 23_Collapsing

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Clara returns from London back home to Glasgow after two weeks. But something has happened.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> What can I say? Sorry?

Clara reached the hospital in the afternoon to find out that her dad had a serious heart attack but nothing that couldn’t be fixed with a heart bypass and a better variation in his eating plan. It was of course heavy news, but the doctors reassured that everything would be fine again. The next day they would make the operation and five days later he could go home, to rest there.

“You can’t leave me here alone, dad,” Clara sat aside of his bed, holding his hands. Remembering the times when her mum had died, the times her dad and she had spent in the hospital, aside her bed, hoping for a miracle.

“I won’t, sweetheart. It’s not my time, so don’t you worry,” he stroked the hair of his daughter, knowing it could have turned out the other way. He had been lucky that Linda has a light sleep.

Clara decided to stay with Linda - and hoped they would get along with each other, as long as her father was not in the house. They would be in shifts in the hospital and take care of the household and the bureaucracy that came along with Mister Oswalds operation. It was eight o’clock in the evening when Clara finally found the time to call Randall in his office.

“Clara!” he immediately picked up, knowing it could only be her. “Everything okay?”

“Yes, gosh, you shouldn’t have stayed in the office,” she called from a public phone in the basement of the hospital, after her phone had died out and to avoid questioning looks from her parents. “They will make an operation, tomorrow. A bypass.”

“They do this every day, I am sure it will be done quickly and without problems,” he tried to give her comfort, but knew that mistakes could happen. He kept this to himself.

“I think I’ll stay at least two weeks. That’s what Nicola told me I could have, before Glen would probably bore my students to death,” she laughed a bit and Randall smirked over her remark.

“If you like, I send Freddy out, to check on any suspicious happenings in your class,” he suggested hoping to get her thoughts away from her father for a moment.

“I am sure he has enough to do, with the missing books in the library,” she leaned against the telephone booth, watching some smokers in the distance, but smiling. “Okay, I got to go, I’ll try to keep you informed. My phone died out, and I have to get a charger first - that’s the only thing I forgot to pack. I’ll try to call you again tomorrow. Bye.”

“Bye. Take care! I miss-,” Clara had already hung up, ”-you.”

Randall hung up and scratched his head, feeling lost and lonely. They hadn’t dealt properly with the consequences of their argument last week and many things still just hung in the air. He knew he had to deal with all the letters and Lix. It was no good that she still wrote him, not in this regularity. But it was not him just sending the letters unread back, he would need to sit down and write her. He made a mental note to do this as soon he had sorted out his thoughts and had come to an conclusion with himself what to write her.

A week later, on a Monday, a letter from Spain reached him, and he knew something was happening, because her letters never came in on a Monday. Not once in the last three and a half years.

#

_Another week later or two weeks after Clara has left for London_

Clara came home on a Sunday afternoon, totally exhausted. She could really go with another week off, to recover from the last two, but that would not happen and so she decided to make the best out of this day. To fall into her bed for a good long sleep till the next morning, at the utmost interrupted by ordering some food and taking a bath. For a split second she thought about to go over to Randall, but his apartment had not been on the way from the train station and she was simply too tired. Also there was a chance he might was not home, and once reaching his door she might would have dropped down in front of it, like a forgotten cat. Her strength was limited, and she knew he would understand.

As he hadn’t a phone except in his office, their contact was limited. She had tried to call him from the hospital in the first week, but only reached him twice because he was busy with new students and students like Freddy who were about to do their final work till the summer. It was all hectic in this time of the year.

In the second week she didn’t reach him at all and was almost worried, so she had called Danny the other day, with whom she  texted from time to time, after she had retrieved the charger for her phone.

He had told her, that - as his office was not very close to Randall’s - he hadn’t seen him often, but just two days before her call, he had seen the man, “He seemed to be in a hurry, but your boyfriend is still alive. It’s finals time. It’s insane, Clara. My students going literally crazy and so he is simply busy as we all are,” he had told her, and she had thanked him.

She arrived very early at the university, to sort out her papers and check her office for messages and simply to get used to the work again. Her mail shelf was bursting, and she had a few missed calls in her office - they didn’t have answer machines, but the phones registered all the calls at least - and some work related emails on her computer. Nothing too serious, it seemed Nicola and Glen had dealt with her absence very well. It wasn’t as if Glen was incompetent, he was just utterly boring.

“God, Clara,” the named man entered her office around 7:30. “I am _so_ glad you are back!”

“Gosh, Glen, what happened, you look rather done - sorry to say that,” he seemed harried. “I am so sorry, but my dad-”

He silenced her scruples with a waving of his hands, sitting down in front of her desk, “That’s not it, it’s okay. I fully understand because of your dad, mine died because of a heart attack, so I know how it its. No, it’s Nicola. She is on this conference since last Wednesday and it’s finals time and you know how Nicola is.”

Oh, she knew exactly how Nicola was, uncoordinated, jumbled and full of extraordinary ideas. She could imagine well, that she had forgotten about the conference, and had left Glen behind with not much words, to deal with the finals and nervous students. “When is she coming back?”

“With luck, never!” he called out.

“Glen!”

“Sorry,” he rolled his eyes. It was definitely time for a break or simply to get retired early. “I expect her back on Wednesday, she told me it would take a week. All advanced education, talking about new and old regulations and elaborate the new curriculum for the next semester.”

“We’re two now, we will manage, yeah?” she leaned over to pad his arm and he nodded. “Tell me what I have missed, did you went on with _1984_ in class?”

Clara was not eager to discuss the last two weeks with Glen, but it had to be done, and only then she could go upstairs to finally find Randall. As Glen was a very correct person, his report about the last two weeks, the students and two tests he had given, took almost 45 minutes. After that she had no more time to do anything else as to grab her bag, the books and hurry toward her classroom. On the way she bumped into Danny.

“Clara!”

“Danny! Good to see you, but I am late,” she passed him with an excusing smile. “As always. Can I talk to you later?”

“Have you heard about Randall?” he turned on his heels to follow her for a few steps.

After ward, when she was standing in class, she realized how odd the phrasing had been. In this moment it was all hectic and busy, and she only said, “No, I only have met Glen yet, I wanted to go to him after class - to which I am already late. I am sorry, Danny, the last two weeks… I.. let’s have coffee later, yeah?”

She noticed the worried frown on Danny’s face, but brushed it off, when he only nodded and gave her a smile that didn’t reach his eyes.

“Yeah, you’ll need one then I guess,” he whispered to himself.

Clara had classes for three hours, and it was noon, when she finally found the way upstairs to Randall’s office. She had missed him so much, had missed his voice on the phone and had decided on the train back, that she would give him a phone for his birthday or another nice day. He probably wouldn’t use it much, but at least she could reach him from time to time - this state was like living in the 80s, Clara thought.

She smirked over the image of him holding a smartphone in hand, telling her _“Clara, I am not a man of the 21st century, I am sure this is all frustrating for me now.”_

Maybe she should give him simply her old Nokia that was still buried somewhere in the basement.

When the familiar door came into sight with the familiar silver letters, her heart began to speed up. Eagerly she knocked at the door.

Yes, after two weeks with her stressful stepmother and her father - who, aside had freshly underwent surgery - believed he could do everything by himself, it was Randall she needed now. His hands around her body, his scent in her nose and a proper snog.

And then there was no answer, and Clara shook her head pressing down the handle, but the door was locked. His door was never locked, not even when he was in the basement. For a moment she couldn’t cope with the new situation, and stared at the thick letters as if they would provide an answer. Clara knocked again, just to be sure. No, no one was in there.

She stepped back, worried wrinkles built up her forehead. What if something had happened with him? An accident or maybe he was sick at home. Glancing down the corridor she went for Sissy’s office.

“Sissy!” Clara greeted her and made the woman jump on the spot.

“Clara?” she stopped her breathing, looking at Clara as if she had seen a ghost.

“Yeah, it’s me,” Clara smiled, now asking herself why everyone of her friends acted strange with her. “Do you know what with Randall is? I came back yesterday, and wanted to tell him that I am back, and … his door is locked. I’m a bit worried. Has he called in sick or something?”

Sissy kneaded her fingers, approaching the office counter that stood between them, “Have you meet Danny yet?”

It was odd that she answered her question with another question, but Clara went with it, “Yes, before class, but I was in a hurry. So we didn’t talk much.”

“Okay,” Sissy looked down for a moment, thinking about how to react to it.

“Sissy, I don’t want to sound impolite, but what’s with Randall? Has something happened?” Clara felt an uneasy shiver creeping up her spine.

When Sissy rose her head again, to look at her with an impression as someone had died, Clara knew something was with Randall, “Oh god, is he okay? W-what is with him?”

“Clara, it’s … I don’t know how to say it-”

“Is he alright?” Clara placed both hands on the counter and was tempted to grab Sissy by the shoulders to shake the answer out of her.

“He is fine!” Sissy raised her voice, knowing Clara would soon start to prattle.“I guess.”

“You guess? What do you mean?” she felt a knot build up in her chest. “Would you please tell me what has happened?”

Sissy glanced to the door, hoping Danny would show up, or - like in a fairytale - Randall himself, also that would not happen soon, or maybe even never.

Clara followed her looks, not understanding what was the matter. Impatience and fright spread around in her body. _‘Something bad has happened!’_ her head whispered.

“It was last week, at Monday,” Sissy began, her voice low. “He came in and told the headmasters that he needed to take a few weeks off.”

“Off? What for?”

Sissy pondered over her answer, knowing it was not actually her right to tell her, but knew she must, “Clara, as you know I take care of filling up the mail shelves for some sections. So I do for Mister Brown - Randall. I don’t know if you know, but since he works here, he always gets a letter from Spain every Wednesday.”

“Yes, I know that,” Clara anticipated bad news.

“Last week, there was one on Monday,” she remembered finding it odd, while she placed the letter into his compartment. She had gotten used to the regularity of a letter on a Wednesday, “and when he talked to the headmasters, I was seeing him with the letter in his hands,” Sissy stopped, hoping Clara would understand. “As I am only the secretary it took a bit till I had all clues together, but the next day I was pretty sure about it.”

Clara stared at her, her thoughts rushing through her head, making connections to at least twelve dozen possibilities of what could have happened, “Sissy, what are you trying to tell me? I can’t put it together. So, please!”

“Clara,” Sissy took a deep breath. “Randall left for Spain last week.”

“What?” it was merely a whisper. It couldn’t be true. “How can you know that? Only because he got a letter on another date from Spain, doesn’t mean he has left for Spain,” her sentence mixed in high pitch sounds and laughter. It was joke, it must be one.

“Maybe he just has taken off for a few weeks,” Clara began babbling. Convincing herself that this, it was, that must be. Him taking off - no. No. “I - I am sure, he is home. Yes, he is surely home. I will drive over and everything will be fine,” with that Clara was about to turn around. Yes, she would drive over, it didn’t matter she had more classes in an hour.

Sissy stopped her with a fast spate of words, “I know that because, he has asked me to print out all possible flights to Cordoba for Monday and Tuesday - what I did.”

Clara froze, unable and unwilling to move,“I don’t understand.”

Sissy hated herself in this moment, she had hoped Danny would tell her. He was way closer with Clara, “It’s everything I know, Clara. He has taken off for at least three weeks, maybe four, and after I have given him the list with the flights, he has left the building without saying anything more,” she sighed and waited till Clara had turned toward her. “We are pretty sure he has left to Spain.”

“We?”

“Danny and I. I told him about it. We thought about calling you, but… because of your dad and everything…,” Sissy felt miserable.

Clara started to nervously rub her cheeks and scratch the back of her head, “Okay, I am sure there is an explanation. There must be one. Did he left a message for me?”

“No, not here,” Sissy shook her head. “Did you check your mails and your phone?”

She had gone through all the mails and had checked her mailbox of her phone in the morning, and there was no message from him. Not at work and not at home.

“I am sure, there is some reason. He wouldn’t just leave,” Clara uttered. “Did he leave no contact address?”

“No. He only said it was very important for him to leave for a few weeks, and he would assign Freddy Lyon to take care of everything. But I saw Freddy last week, and he said to me he doesn’t know more as I do,” Sissy paused, seeing Clara slowly collapse inside. “I am sure he has his reasons, I am sure he will get in contact with you.”

Clara nodded absently, a picture of Randall stepping inside a plane, with no intention of coming back, “The list you made him, about the flights, did it contain also flights for a return?”

Sissy swallowed, “Clara, I think we shouldn’t over think this.”

“So there weren’t any return flights on the list,” it was not a question of her. The picture became now more vividly.

“No,” Sissy whispered. “I have asked him if he needed any, but he said no.”

Hearing this Clara stepped back from the counter, both hands gripping the edges, blowing air out of her lungs. Mentally exhausted from the last two weeks, to come back and hear this, it was like a blow right into her heart. Staring down the floor, she felt her eyes getting wet and Clara had no more will or strength to force the emotions back, and so tears of anger, but most of all of disappointment rolled down her cheeks. They rolled over her skin to drop down onto the floor. A sobbing shook went through Clara’s body.

“Clara?” Sissy walked around the counter, but Clara stopped her with a hand sign, still not looking up.

“I can’t believe he did this!” she pressed out under tears, her hands clawing into the edges of the counter, till pain streamed through her. When the emotions became all too much she yanked at it, and a suppressed yell escaped her. The wooden barrier rattled and vibrated and Sissy was afraid for a second Clara would tear it apart.

Then Clara inhaled as deep as she could, letting go of the counter, straightening herself and her body became stiff and tense and it was to her as if her heart would rip her open to climb out of her chest any second, so much it hurt.

In this moment Danny came around the corner, first seeing Clara then giving Sissy a worried look. Quickly he understood that she knew now about Randall’s leave.

“Oh, god, Clara!” he approached her to calm her down. “I’m sure there is-”

“Don’t!” Clara stepped away from him, holding up both her hands. “Don’t… _there is_ no explanation. _There is_ no message, nothing. Don’t tell me, …” she fell into Danny’s arms and cried her eyes out.

As it seemed Randall had gotten the letter from Lix on Monday, and he had left the same day, and what ever stood in the letter, seemed more important than Clara ever could be to him.

Danny could calm her down and offered her to driver her home, but she wanted to stay, to give her classes. She couldn’t ask Glen for help again, not after he had covered the last two weeks for her and also teaching would keep her busy. Would keep the pain in check.

Another three hours passed and Clara reached her office, only to shut the door, and break down in front of it. In the short minutes between the classes, she had checked her mails and her mobile again, to be sure there was no message from Randall. And there was none.

She wrapped her arms around her legs, and sobbed uncontrollably. She couldn’t stop herself, the emotions couldn’t be held back anymore. All the thoughts she had, while in London, about Randall and her and their future, about going to Paris, about being together - wasted.

She wanted to bang her head hard against the door, and she needed to stand up, to stop herself from giving into this need of self harm. Glancing into the mirror, she saw she was mess. Her make-up ruined and the mascara smeared all over her face. Blowing her nose, she tried to fix herself up a bit.

She couldn’t tell for how long she simply sat at her desk, staring into the nothing, like someone had taken out all the life that was in her. Twenty minutes? An hour? Time had stopped being important. After two weeks of yearning for him and of dreaming about a _“together”_ , time didn’t matter anymore. Light had become darkness in the blink of an eye.

How foolish could be one, to believe he had feelings for her? What ever the truth was, she had found her own. She _had to_ find her own, as he had seemed unwilling to at least explain himself to her.

Clara Oswald, the girl from Blackpool, who dreamed of travelling and seeing the world. What an easy target for Randall Brown, the quirky but sophisticated journalist - and she fell for him, and believed he had no more interest in Lix Storm.

It was her own fault, she thought, the shadow of Miss Storm had been so huge and she still had ignored it and had believed his reassurances.

The letter was probably telling him, to come back, to try it again as a couple and like a good boy he had obeyed - still in love with her.

Clara hadn’t noticed that she cried, not till her hand landed on a wet spot on her desk. And then the telephone rang.

The sound needed a few rings, till it reached her in the deep shadow she had retreated. Blinking she looked down at the display. It was a weird collection of numbers - familiar, she had seen the same number in the _“missed call”_ list earlier, but hadn’t thought much about it - could it be?

Her hand reached out, while her heart was trapped between fear and hope, “Hello?”

First there was silence, then some static noise started to come over the line, mixed up with a cracking and a voice. A familiar voice. Randall.

The words came in clipped, always interrupted by cracks and odd sounds.

 _“Clara, it’s me --- I --- Spain,”_ a high pitched buzzing made her hold the receiver away for a moment. _“I left you --- hear me?”_ How many pain, could someone bare? _“Lix is --- and I will stay --- I won’t --- back --- Clara,”_ after that there was just rustling and faint words, she couldn’t understand.

The connection broke down.

And so did Clara.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I have already wrapped up this story, and next Chapter will be out on Monday! Have all a nice weekend. And oh.. yes.. sorry.


	24. 24_Lix

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Follow Randall to Spain

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Thanks for your overwhelming reaction to the last chapter, it seemed it had the effect on you I was hoping for. 
> 
> This chapter is really long, but I think it is very important for the story and for the characters. This chapter is important because of the past and the future our characters had / will have. I left a comment in my Notes at the end, and you shouldn't read them now, to not spoil yourself!

It was a small village at the Mediterranean coast around 50 miles away from Gibraltar. He vaguely had known where it was, but never had made an effort to look it up in an atlas. The first glance of its exact position, he had made when he had arrived at the airport in Cordoba, looking at an old map, already fading because of the sun. He had to wait for a bus for two hours, only to drive again three hours through little villages and spots that could be best described as desert. Randall was glad it was not summer, it would have been unbearable for him. 

In the end, he reached his destination, exhausted from a long flight and the traveling by bus. The bus stop was only a sign and a minimalistic bench, in the middle of the village. 

When the bus left him behind, he really hoped it was the right place, because the next bus only would show up the next day. Looking around he saw some pensioners sitting in the sun, exchanging small talk with each other. Some kids played around them and when they spotted the stranger the kids - maybe eight years old - gathered around him saying hello. He smiled at them and decided to ask for help, to find his hotel and the address he was carrying around in his pocket. 

His coat over his arms, he placed the hat he had brought with him, on his head and crossed the street, “Hola!” 

His Spanish was still appalling, and he had never made an effort to finally learn it. So he asked for directions in broken Spanish and good French. They sent him down the street, where he would find both. His hotel and further down, at the end of the road, the house he was looking for. 

First he checked into the hotel, a small mansion, with a few rooms - ageing, but good enough for him. He had slept in worse places. The room was bigger as expected, with a single bed, a table with chairs, a cupboard and a sink. Simple but effective, and rather bleak. 

It fitted the situation, Randall thought, and refreshed himself over the sink. He hadn’t the chance to shave since he had left Glasgow and a slight shadow covered his face. He would take care of it in the morning. 

It was four in the afternoon, when he stepped outside his hotel to follow the road to it’s end. The air had gotten chilly and refreshing, and he enjoyed the slight breeze while walking down the road, taking in his surroundings. It was a lovely looking village. Typically for Spain, everything was painted white and some buildings seemed to be hewn into the stone. It would keep the residents cool in the summers and warm in the winters. 

When he reached the end of the road, there was only one building left. A free standing bungalow, framed by waist high hedges. The house was built on a little hill, and must have sight directly toward the sea, he guessed. He took a minute to admire it. It matched her character so well, and he understood why she had chosen to live here and not in the centre of the village.

He approached the door that was open, only covered with a screen door. There was no door bell, so he knocked loudly against the wood. 

“Uno momento!” an unfamiliar female voice called from the inside, and Randall took of his hat, waiting to be led in.

A minute later a young woman, around Clara’s age, showed up. She opened the screen door and eyed him for a moment. 

“Hola,” he whispered, getting now nervous. 

“Randall Brown?” the woman asked in a thick accent and so he guessed she didn’t speak much English. He nodded. After another moment, she nodded too and left him in, only doting down the floor with a “There”.

He followed the instructions, slowly walking down the floor, eyeing pictures and paintings at the wall. Some pictures he was familiar with, some he wasn’t, but he knew they were all taken by herself. A faint smell of lavender hang in the air, there he knew he was in the right place. She always had a scent of lavender on her. 

It was the living room the floor brought him too, but instead a sofa, there was a bed in there. A medical bed. The rest of the room was like he always had imagined it. A telly, sideboards filled with pictures, newspapers and magazines, some clatter in the shelves that stood at the wall. Books, many books, not as many as he had, but enough to keep one occupied for a while. The living room was connected to a big patio. A big double door led to the outside, it was wide open and the wind played with the white sheer curtains. 

The smell of cigarettes hung in the air and it brought his interrogating looks toward the bed again. Still standing by the door frame, playing with the brim of his hat like a nervous schoolboy he brought a smile to his face. 

“You came,” was all Lix said. 

He gave the room one last look around, and then entered, placing his hat onto the sideboard. 

He placed his hands onto the end of the bed, looking down at her. 

She had lost weight since he had seen her last in London. Even he knew, it was unintentional it still suited her. Time had been generous with her, and the wrinkles around her eyes and mouth had deepened only slightly. She still looked beautiful. 

Her hair was neatly done, brown and he assumed she coloured it. Lix Storm was no one for admiring grey on her own head. He remembered how she used to bind her hair together in Croatia, when they were out, near the front, when they needed to wear helmets that said _“PRESS”_ in front and on the back. 

He also remembered her, sitting on her spare hotel bed, allowing him to remove the hair pit and to brush her hair for her. It mostly lead, to him kissing her neck, carefully, always afraid she would shoo him away like a cat. Their exchange of intimacy always had depended on her, it was always her who had initiated touches, back in Croatia and back in London.

Yes, it was to him as if he had left London and her, just the other day. She hadn’t tried to stop him that day. What for? She had known as well as he had, that their relationships couldn’t be anymore. Not after the discovery of Sofia’s dead. _“You have to do what you have to do, Randall,”_ she had dragged at her cigarette. _“You always did, in some way.”_

Her nicely done make up, the washed and styled hair and the lack of ageing, couldn’t hide the fact for Randall that things were about to come to an end. Time had maybe forgotten to do it’s work, but not the sickness. 

Not the cancer that inhabited her. 

_‘Dear Randall,_

_I can’t be sure, but if everything goes like I think it goes, this letter will receive you on a Monday. I know you hate changes, but only so I can be sure you’ll open the letter. Maybe I know you all to well._

_I am not one for beating around the bush, so I’ll tell you the news straight forward. The Doctors told me it was serious. I laughed at them. Croatia, the one time we almost got killed in a shower of shots, was serious, but cancer…_

_You surely have heard about the five stages of grief. Of course you have, hasn’t Freud written a book about it too - or was that someone else. Anyway, I finished off denial, anger and bargaining within two days and right now it seems I am in a state between depression and acceptance. Who can tell?_

_It’s lung cancer, stage four. It means there is no hope left. I don’t know what I expect from you after sending the letter away._

_I wanted you to know._

_Love, Lix._

He had stepped inside a plane the next day, knowing it was a rash decision, and would be inevitable followed by unforeseen problems. That always happened when he made rash decisions, that’s why he used to take his time. Time Lix hadn’t. 

The pills on the bed stand told him how serious it must be already. Half a dozen of orange plastic boxes told about a fight, that was already lost. Randall swallowed, urging the pain that lingered in his heart back into its waiting position. 

“Of course, I came.”

Lix smiled, her eyes wandering over him, “Still the suits, Randall?”

“Still the suits,” he gave her a thin smile back. “They … suit me.”

One of her eyebrows arched up over his words. Sometimes, in the daze, and the heat of the Spanish weather, and after so long years, she forgot from time to time, that Randall could be quite humorous. “You got grey.”

“And you didn’t,” he slowly made it around the edge of the bed, closer to her. She laid in it, without a blanket, fully dressed, as if she had lain down after dinner for a while. Her blue greyish eyes watched him curiously coming closer. She was tired, he saw that, while there was still a spark glowing in her. It was the spark he had fallen in love with, all those years ago in Croatia. 

When he stood aside her, his hand was only an inch away from hers, but he didn’t dare to take her hand. Only his fingers slightly moved into her direction. In relation to Lix, nothing had changed in him, he was still taken aback, restrained and insecure. His eyes were fixed on her and only when she grabbed his hand, he closed his eyes and sank down onto the chair, aside her bed, pressing her hand against his mouth. Her fingers closing around his palm and they exchanged long glances without talking. 

The woman who had Randall let in, came back, knocking softly at the door, and said something in Spanish, he didn’t understand. Lix answered her, and the woman smiled and left toward the kitchen. 

“Who is she?” Randall placed their hands onto the bed. 

“Maria, she is my household help. Well, she was,” Lix corrected herself. “We became friends and now she helps me… with all this,” she made a meaningful gesture with her hand down her body. “The Doctors told me I should move into a hospice, but I told them, that if I die - and I will - I’ll die here.”

“Because you are stubborn,” Randall reached for a carafe with water and poured some into a glass to hold it out to Lix. She declined and so he drank it himself.

“The next hospice is far away, Randall. It has no view and when I moved in here, I did it because of the view, that’s why the bed stands in here,” she explained, pointing out to the patio. 

Randall stood up and walked over to the wide open doors, the breeze hitting his face, he saw the coast and the sea from there. Inhaling deeply he could even smell the salt in his nose. He wandered around for a minute onto the patio, watching some birds playing in the sky and a person with a dog down at the beach. No, this time Lix hadn’t been stubborn, it was simply wise to stay here. Only an idiot would change this view against a grey and empty room.

“It is rather beautiful,” he turned around walking back inside, to find her sleeping. 

Shoving his hands into his pockets he watched her almost ten minutes, remembering old times. 

Memories, he had thought he had forgotten, suddenly popped up in his mind like little films, filled with words they had spoken, or the laughing fit they had, after half a bottle of Whiskey. Or the moment in the cafe, before they had found out about Sofia’s dead, when she had taken his hand and he had hoped they could be together again - for good this time. 

“She sleeps?” a voice brought him back. It was Maria. “It happens sometimes, its the medicaments. They make her tired,” she took the blanket from the sideboard and placed it over Lix. 

Randall only hummed, because he was overwhelmed by the situation. The lack of sleep, the long journey and seeing Lix die made his stomach turn and his heart ache. 

“She will probably not wake up again, till tomorrow,” Maria went on, seeing the exhaustion in Randall’s posture. “You can come back in the morning. But not before nine. Yes?”

“Yes,” he nodded and took his hat from the sideboard. “Can you tell me where I can find a public telephone? I need to call home.” The hotel had a phone, but they told him he couldn’t use it, when he wanted to call overseas, so he needed to find a public phone. 

“There is one at the town square, you can’t miss it,” Maria smiled gently. 

“Thank you,” he smiled back, and left.

#

He found the phone. It seemed not to be in use very often, it looked rather battered. Some of the varnish from the receiver was already missing and he needed to convince him to touch the thing, musing who had used it before. In the end he pulled out his handkerchief and wrapped it around the receiver and took it off the holder. Frowning, he held the thing toward his ear without touching himself with it, and he noted relieved that the phone was still working. He hanged up again and searched in his pockets for money and in his little notebook, he carried in the inside of his jacket, for Clara’s telephone number. 

The problem was, he never had cared to ask her for her mobile number and she never had given it to him, so the only number he had, was her office number. It made no sense to ring her, she was still in London and it was also already late. Though it didn’t stop him and so he dialed the number and waited till it rang. There was a long silence at first and some cracking noises, and only then it started to ring like in a distance. He listened to the ringing noises for a while, smiling, knowing that her phone was making noises back in her office in Glasgow, then he hung up. He would try again in a week. 

#

He had a restless sleep. His hand reaching out into the nothing, before he woke up startled and not aware where he was for three times. When it was five in the morning he decided to end his struggle and to stand up. With wandering thoughts he started his morning routine, washing, shaving and also shoving the table and the chairs around till the position satisfied him. It took him almost twenty minutes. 

Then he went downstairs, where the owner had made him a spare breakfast what was enough for him, he wasn’t hungry anyway. It was still over an hour till nine, and so he went for a walk in the little village. He thought about Clara, and asked himself what she was doing right now and hoped everything was okay with her father. 

Stopping by a statue that showed a torero, he looked at it, but didn’t saw it. Flashes of Clara showed up in front of him. He missed her smile, and right now he even missed the way she had scolded him for the letters and his secrecy. It made him aware that his being here in Spain wouldn’t help at all to solve the problems he had left behind in Glasgow. 

It was like coincidence and destiny had changed their mind, and after bringing them together, now were tempted to put obstacles in their way as much as they could. Randall was well aware that he was irresponsible with what he had with Clara, and that the chances were well given that, when he would return home, that he would stand there with empty hands in the end. From his point of view, it was what he probably deserved. He only could hope that Clara would understand and that the message he had left, would reach her.

He returned to Lix place after that, feeling tired and dispirited already. Maria let him in again, and he wondered if she slept there overnight, but he was too polite to ask her about it.

Lix was standing by the open doors, having a cup of coffee in her hand (the only thing she ever had done for breakfast) and a cigarette in the other. The way Randall furrowed his brow, she could tell he was judging her for her irresponsible behaviour in silence. 

“You can say it, Randall,” she turned to him and he saw she was in one of her temperamental moods. “For once you could _not_ keep your mouth shut.”

Three years of not seeing her, hadn’t made him forget how she sometimes could be. Ignoring her, he walked over to the table and poured himself in a coffee - he guessed the second mug was for him. Lix huffed at him and flipped the cigarette away - only half smoked. 

“I am sure the Doctors have told you it was not the best idea to smoke, when one has lung cancer,” he said after sipping from his coffee. “You don’t listen to the Doctors, people with a medical degree. Why would you listen to me?”

She waited with an answer, and observed him glancing around in the room. Not long, she recognized that his eyes rested on something across from her, in the shelf. She followed the direction he looked at and saw her old camera laying there. Randall didn’t asked for permission, the camera was always the one thing he was allowed to touch without asking - why ever. He walked over and took the metal camera body carefully out of the shelf. Years had left marks, but for its age it was very well looked after and when he noted the cap on the lens he gave it a smile and placed it gently back. 

“So, why would you?” he repeated, turning around to her and it made her laugh, that turned quickly into coughing. Randall was at her side with three large steps, taking the cup out of her hand and steadied her while guiding her over to the bed. “Water?”

“Yes,” she pressed her head back into the pillow and let Randall feed her water. She didn’t like it, she hated being so vulnerable in front of him. Three years ago, she would have chased him away (like she had often done) in this moment. No man, not even the one she had a daughter with once, should ever see her in such a state, but life was always a progress and even Lix Storm had learned her lessons, and knew, it was not worth it to care about it anymore. She trusted two people in this world, Maria and Randall. 

“How long?” he suddenly asked, a question that had bothered him all night and he needed to know.

“It can be two days, or two month,” she gestured him to bring the bed into an upright position. “What means, they don’t know. This _thing_ holds me in its hand.”

Randall felt a lump built up in his throat, “What about chemotherapy?” 

“What for?” she laughed out helplessly. “The cancer has spread already, it’s too late. I am not fond of loosing my hair anyway. I am not going to wear a wig, Randall,” she patted his hand before reaching for her coffee again. 

The corner of his mouth twitched into a sad smile, “I told you.”

Yes, he had told her. Told her to stop the drinking and the smoking, especially the smoking. For a moment she glared at him and when he held his ground, her expression softened, “Yes, you did. And I am sure you remember what I’ve answered you. I am too old to change.”

“Yeah, why not drink and smoke, we might all die tomorrow,” he spoke out bold. The bitter foreshadowing behind the words made him tense and his hands into fists. 

Lix, who already had left behind the fight Randall was about to fight now now, smirked over the words. It didn’t reach her eyes, what for, it was horrifying true and again it seemed everything was connected in this universe. “Not tomorrow,” she held out her hand to him. “There is still time.”

He hesitated, first needed to relax again, then he took her hand and sat aside from her, “That’s bargaining, I thought you have already left that behind you.”

Lix shifted in the bed to get a better position to eye him better, “Have you met someone?”

Her observation made him tilt his head in appreciation. There was no point in hiding anything from her, she knew him all too well anyway, “Did I?”

She pursed her lips at him, knowing she was right, and knowing he was playing, “The last time I saw you, you weren’t that perky. So, who is she?”

“Does it matter?” he asked instead.

“What? Do you think I get jealous?” she thought about it for a second. “I probably would.”

“Why?”

“Because I always was rather fond of you, Randall, that’s why,” they both knew it was the closest thing to an admission. Randall felt his heart twinge and looked away, to the camera in the shelf. “It’s yours when you want to have it.”

“Why would I want to have your camera?”

“Because I have no use for it anymore. Maria has the order to throw everything away or to give it to the red cross,” Lix made a smacking sound with her tongue. “It’s a good camera, it would be sad to see it land in the dumpster or in the hand of a fool who forgets to place a cap on the lens. Not that I’m going to see it. I just thought…”

“I’ll think about it,” was all Randall had to offer about the camera. It was so typical Lix, making him take the camera. That’s what he would do, to rescue the camera from the dumpster or a fool. Making him remember her till the day he would die. It was unnerving for him to know this, though he kept it to himself. He would deal with the inner struggle later, when it was time for it. 

“Would you tell me about your girlfriend, if I would ask you?” he heard the playful tone in her voice and enjoyed she hadn’t lost her sense of humour. “Am I allowed to say girlfriend? It sounds so… so young. What do people say in our age? Lady friend? Sweetheart? Would you tell me about her when I would ask?”

“You like this, don’t you?” he stood up and took of his jacket, it had gotten to warm. “Teasing me, playing with me. You always did.”

“And didn’t you liked it too?” she reached for the case of cigarettes again, holding it out to him, offering him. “I never did anything you didn’t let me do to you.” 

He grabbed the case and placed it away, earning a miffed expression from her, “Maybe I would tell you.”

“What's her name?” she shoved herself out of the bed. “Let’s get outside, I want to see the water. And bring the whiskey. No arguing!”

Randall waited till she sat safely on one of the chairs and then joined her with a glass and the whiskey bottle, watching down the hill toward the coast, “Clara. Her name is Clara.”

“Mh, I like her name,” Lix poured two fingers into the glass. “Whiskey is still better as all the painkillers they have prescribed me. She is younger, isn’t she?”

Randall stared at her staggered and it made her chuckle, there he realized she had only taken a shot in the dark, and it angered him that he had fallen for it.

“Why not, young is good,” Lix mused sipping from her glass. “Keeps you busy and awake. Does that sound frivolous? It probably does. Did you come to get my blessing?”

“The world is not entirely spinning only around you, Lix,” his left shoe made a scraping sound on the ground. “I came because you wrote me a letter, that told me you would…”

“You can say it,” she encouraged him, giving him half a minute, and then said it for him. “The word is dying, Randall. I am dying.”

“And I am here, ain’t I?” 

“You sound as if I do this on purpose,” she sipped again from her glass and let the liquor slowly flow down her throat. “As if I decided to die, to make you come here.”

It shocked him, not because she had said such thing, more that it was exactly what he had thought. Not deliberately, more subconsciously and perhaps not even this, “It would be your thing. On the other side, you’re not one to chase after one.”

“After you,” she corrected.

“What?”

“After you, not after one. After you,” he couldn’t follow her, and almost took it as an affront. “I indeed never have chased a man, - who really needs a man - though you were the big exception in my life.”

“Were I?” 

“I wrote you letters, didn’t I?” she smiled mischievously at him. “I didn’t even to the man I have married in the end.”

Randall didn’t like to hear about her marriage. Five years after Croatia she had married a novelist only to get divorced a year later. After declining his proposal, her decision to marry someone else had hurt him. He was now over it, but the scar her action had left, still twinged when the weather was bad. “And I never really answered them.”

“I never expected you would,” she refilled her glass. “I liked the thought that you got them. It was nice to know you were still out there.”

Randall walked over to the stone balustrade, his finger gliding over the rough surface, while he followed the waves with his eyes till they clashed at the coast. He shouldn’t be here, he should be with Clara. It would have been easy to go with her to London, he should have offered it to her, instead he had allowed his worries to judge for him once again. Thinking she might be better on her own, and that he would have been only a disturbing subject was reasonable thinking, but a breach of faith when one considered, that he had left the continent a week later. 

He wouldn’t be here, when Lix would be not dying. It was not like he was here because she had forced him in her subtle ways. Randall shouldn’t be here, but he needed to be here. He needed to close this chapter of his past, only then Clara and his future had a chance to exist. If Lix would have died without him meeting her once again, he never would have forgiven it himself. He had loved her, and they had a daughter together, that meant a lot to him. 

“I came to say I’m sorry,” he turned around facing her. The wind played with her hair and she looked again like when they were young again. He had to admit to himself, that he was tempted to fall for her once more. “I regretted that I left you all these years ago, I should have stayed.”

Lix rose slowly from her stool, making her way over to him, to lean against the balustrade, “You know that I actually sent you away.”

“I should have stayed anyway. I should have made a point.”

Lix chuckled, fiddling with a little stone that laid by her hand, “I never would have let you.”

Before he had decided to come back to London and join “The Hour” he had played out this dialogue with himself a million times. “I could have taken Sofia, and could have raised her on my own.”

“You know as good as I, that you would never had done that. You loved your job, you are like me. We love what we do. A child was not what would had made us happy. None of us wanted to take a step back to raise a child,” Lix watched a falcon catch a mouse in the distance. “Remember, you always did what you wanted to do. If you had wanted to raise a child, you would have done it.”

“I should have tried at least.”

“Don’t be ridiculous, Randall,” she covered his hand with hers. “It was not meant to be. Stop sulking, it spoils your face.”

He smiled faintly into the distance. Lix had always been good in blending out the hurtful truth, or maybe she had been able to face all her fears the last years and worked it all out, something he never had done. 

After they had learned about Sofia’s death, he never did let go of his daughter, like one should do after a proper time of grieving. While he always had hope for her being alive, in the times between her birth and the news she had died years ago, Lix had sensed that her daughter had died already. 

The pair that had adopted Sofia, stopped writing one day and vanished from the radar, and a mother knows when her child is gone. Ignoring the nudging feeling, she somehow always knew and could work it out for herself over the years, while Randall had clung to the hope for the impossible. 

“Why didn’t you marry me?” he turned to her, taking her hand in his. “And don’t tell me because you didn’t wanted to have a man, or because we both were workaholics, because I you married five years later, and I still don’t understand it.”

She smirked, the whiskey in her veins began to make her slowly light headed and her walls came down, “You didn’t liked that at the time, did you?”

“I needed a while to forgive you, yes,” his glance fell toward her neck, where she still wore the ring he had proposed to her with on a silver chain. “Right now, I am simply curious.”

Lix saw the looks he gave the ring, and then her, feeling his heart was still filled with fond memories and feelings for her. There had been love once, and it had been still there when he had left London again, even it was fading there already. Now, there was deep friendship reflecting in his eyes, and she was proud of him, that he had found someone who deserved his love more than her. She reached out, placing her hand on his cheek, and he leaned into the touch. 

“I treated you like a dog,” her fingers carefully trailed along his temples. “In Croatia our hearts beat in time, for a short moment, only. You wanted to stay, and I wanted to run. You wanted silence, and I wanted to yell at this world. And our heart beats stopped beating in time, and separated again. I loved you,” his eyes became wet. “And I knew you loved me, and sometimes that is simply not enough. We shined brighter alone in this world, Randall. You always were aware of that.”

“Were I?”

“Don’t underestimate yourself,” she stepped closer. “You were always the stronger one. If you had seen a chance, you had fought for it.”

The wind tousled both their hair, while he held Lix, weak on her feet, in his arms, feeling her attempt to go to kiss him, “I love her.”

Lix chuckled, “Shouldn’t you tell _her_?” she pressed the kiss on his cheek before placing her head against his shoulder, hugging him like she always wanted to. Randall held her, till she got tired and then he carried her back into the living room and covered her body with the blanket to watch her sleep. 

#

On Monday the next week he walked down to the telephone three times. Two times no one responded, and he guessed she was doing her classes. The third time, his heart was beating fast and he couldn’t stay still on the spot, finally someone picked up. 

_“Hello?”_ Clara. He smiled relieved, happy to hear her voice. 

“Clara, it is me, Clara? I am in Spain, I left you a message. Can you hear me?” he waited a moment, but the line buzzed and cracked all the time and it was hard to believe that any of his words would reach the other side. He had no choice as to believe she would understand him. “Lix is very sick, she will probably die, and I will stay till everything is sorted. I won’t come back before the end of the month,” he paused, listening, but there was no response. “Clara? Do you hear me?” Then there was a feeling, that the line had broken down, but he kept speaking. “I can’t hear anything and hope you get this message. Clara? In case you are listening, I’ll come back, I promise! I couldn’t reach you in London and it was an emergency. I hope you understand,” again he paused, believing he could hear voices, but he assumed it was just some disturbances or the local radio station that had ended up in his call somehow. “Goodbye, I’ll try again tomorrow.”

And that’s what he did. He tried again and again, but there was no answer. He tried a couple of other numbers, but the signal was so bad, that he couldn’t hear anything and after a few days he gave up. He should have sent a letter, but now it was too late. Randall sensed a damage was done, that couldn’t be reversed anymore. 

#

A week and a half later, Lix died. He attended the funeral and stayed to comfort Maria who cried her eyes out for three days straight and to help sorting out Lix’s stuff. The little money she had saved, went to Maria and also the bungalow, she intended to sell, because she didn’t wanted to stay in the place her friend had died. 

They needed a week to sort out everything. Most of it went to the red cross and the books to a local school. Maria asked Randall if he wanted to have her pictures, but he declined. He knew most of them by heart and so they decided to send them to London, to the press society, hoping they would find a good spot for them. They were too precious to throw away. 

In the end, there was only one thing left. The camera. And Randall took it from the shelf, his fingertips feeling around each edge, button and the little scratch on the bottom of it. He had found a few rolls of film in the back of her fridge - _“because that’s the bloody spot you store them, Randall”_ and inserted one, what took him ten minutes, due the fact, he hadn’t used a camera since years. When he was sure the film was safely and correct reeled in, he walked outside onto the patio and took a picture of the view. Then he tugged it gently into his suitcase and left. 

He led Maria hug him till he had no more air in his lungs, and led her give him a bag with some food, because _“you look like a grey haired stick insect! You need to eat!”_ and he tried to take it as a compliment. 

He had been gone almost four weeks, when he stepped out the plane in Glasgow, Lix camera in his bag and the discovery that it was time to let go of the past and to take care of his future. Clara. 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So I hope you guys liked this one, and in case there are Lix/Randall shippers, I hope you are okay with my version of the end I gave them.  
> As Lix's drinking and smoking habit was addressed in the hour (and personally I think she was a heavy smoker and drinker) I thought that she maybe one day would pay the price for it. Also I wanted Randall to find peace with his past and his first true love (what I think she was). I really would love when you leave me a comment how you liked this one!
> 
> Next chapter soon!


	25. 25_Return

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Randall returns to Glasgow. Can he make things right, that have went wrong in his absence?

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Uh, people, we getting closer to the end, but there are still two more chapters and an epilogue to go! Also sorry, this is a slightly shorter chapter, but after this 6000 words monster from last week, I am sure you'll forgive me.

_Set four weeks after Randall has left Glasgow_

It was raining the day when Randall returned to Glasgow. The sky was grey and after four weeks in the warm weather of Spain, Randall shivered while walking to his car, which he had parked close to the airport. He hadn't packed an umbrella and so he only could try to save himself from getting wet with his hat and the coat. It didn’t help much, he was soaking wet, when he reached the car. To avoid a cold, he opened his bag, pulled out a little towel, a shirt and his jumper. He dropped the rest of the bag in the trunk, and then changed clothes in his car. His wet hat and the coat he placed onto the back seat. 

His plane had left in the wee hours in Cordoba, and now it was noon. He hadn’t slept much, he mostly had spent the night awake at the airport or in a bus. Again he hadn’t shaved since a day or two and was tired and had a headache, but he knew he needed to use the rest of the day to do something he knew was long overdue. Find Clara. Talk to her and make right what had went wrong.

When he had tried to call her again in Spain, the third day in a row, and she hadn’t answered, he begun to understand that she never would answer the phone. Something had happened, and he only could expect the worst. 

As her apartment was on his way home, he decided to stop by. He feared the moment they would meet again, and when he walked closer to the door, he felt his heart sink. It was still raining and so he pressed himself under the little roof of the main door, pressing the doorbell for her apartment. Nothing happened, and he huffed dissatisfied. He stepped back, and tried to make something out by her window, but he couldn’t see anything and so he ringed again. Longer this time. 

“Come on, Clara!” he whispered to himself and he had luck, that another resident opened up the door to leave the house, and Randall could quickly step inside, shaking the rain out of his hair. 

He hurried up the stairs and along the dark corridor, to her apartment. Reaching the door he rubbed his cold hands together, his eyes roaming over the door. Something was wrong. Usually she had her name taped over the doorbell, but it was missing. He pressed the buzzer and knocked at her door at the same time. 

“Clara?” he leaned against the door, his ear on the wood, listening if he could hear anything. He knocked again, hectically, harder, “Clara!”

Then a door went open, but not Clara’s. It was an old man, down the floor, peering out of his apartment with a grim face. Randall and the man made eye contact. He never had met anyone in the house, but he guessed it was the man with the wife who didn’t like Clara much - she had told him once about them.

“I am looking for Miss Oswald,” Randall made a step toward the man, but stopped at once, fearing he would feel threatened and would close the door again. “The young woman, the teacher. Brown hair-”

“She’s gone!” the man called down the floor, already in the process of closing the door again, but Randall brought out his ace and called out to him in Welsh. “What do you mean she is gone?”

That worked. He knew from Clara that it was an old Scottish couple who seemed to disliked non-Scottish people.

“She moved out. One week ago,” the man answered back in Welsh.

“Do you know where?”

“What do I care, darn Blackpudlian,” and then the door went shut again with a bang.

“Moved? But…,” Randall frowned. Why would she move? Where did she move to? Did she move into another apartment in Glasgow? 

There was a chance she was so annoyed by her neighbours, that she had decided to move. Maybe she had found a better place in short notice. Sometimes one has to act fast for a new apartment. Yes, it must be so, he thought. Hadn’t she said something, about moving closer to the University?

#

The University. He looked down at his watch, it was noon, and she should be there, when not at home. A home that - at least here - was no more existent. 

He needed to talk to the headmasters about his return, with Freddy and deal with everything that hadn’t been done since he had left, so it was the next place to go. 

When he reached the University, the rain had finally stopped and he thanked heaven for it. Walking up the stairs to the main entrance, he looked out for familiar faces, mostly for Clara, but there was no one he really knew. Students returned from the lunch break and it was quite busy in the halls. 

Randall didn’t thought long about what to do next, he simply followed his instinct and went toward Clara’s office. He had reached a state in which his sleep deprivation had turned into restlessness, lack of concentration and jitter movements, what made him grab the handle of the door without knocking. 

“Cla-” the door was locked and he almost ran with his face against it. He tried the handle again, more aggressive and ended his act with a blow of his palm against the door. Whatever game was played here, he didn’t understood any of it. Stepping back he glared at the door as if he could make it open up with pure will.

“Can I help you?”

He knew the questions was for him, but he didn’t look who had asked him and simply answered, “I need to see Miss Oswald.” 

“Who?”

That made him tilt his head, toward a woman he didn’t knew. It was not unusual to not know all teachers and professors - for that they were simply too much. 

“Clara Oswald. That’s her office,” he said sharp, pointing at the door with a flat hand.

The woman snickered, nervously. She was intimidated by Randall’s reaction, who was also a stranger to her, “It’s actually my office. I don’t have a door sign, yet.”

Randall eyed the door again, and his view flickered toward the plastic frame aside the door. It was empty. There must be a mistake, he thought. He looked down the corridor, to check the floor he was on, seeing it was the right one. Randall’s body started slowly to break out in cold sweat and his stomach began to feel like he had eaten stones. This must be a mistake. It must be one. 

“Are you sure?” he asked and the woman frowned at him, unsure what he meant. She guessed he must be joking around.

“I have a key for it, see,” she brought out a chain with a key and opened the door. Randall didn’t wait for her to invite him in or anything, he simply stepped inside, glancing around. It, of course, led to protest of the new colleague. 

“Mister!”

It was Clara’s office, the dinged up table and the chair where the same, the shelves stood at the same spot and when the woman had turned on the light, it flickered exactly like it always did before coming to life. However, everything that made this office to Clara’s office, the books, the pictures, the postcards and all the other personal clatter one had, were gone. Replaced by some unpacked boxes and a highly odd frame that showed the new owner with her partner. Slowly it dawned on him, what had happened in his absences. 

“How long do you work here?”

“That’s my second week,” the woman couldn’t say if Randall was a threat, a father of a student or simply some maniac, and he had no intention of telling her who he was. It was not on his mind. He turned, let his eyes travel over her once more and then thanked her before leaving the office. 

Slowly he walked down the corridor toward the steps, lost in thoughts and lost in horrible scenarios. Clara had not only moved from her apartment, she had also moved out of her office, and that could only mean one thing. Clara had moved out of Glasgow and had resigned. 

“Randall!” the voice hurt in his ears, and when he turned around to Nicola Murray, it was to him as if he only saw her in a blur. 

“Nicola,” he whispered, closing his eyes, so he could concentrate on the painful feeling inside of him, to contain control over it before it would make him shatter under the eyes of Nicola and a dozen students. 

“It’s so nice to see you again,” Nicola, totally unaware what was happening with Randall, cheered. “Are you back for good now? Where have you been anyway? Spain, wasn’t it Spain?”

Maybe this was a nightmare, and he hadn’t woke up yet, or he had an accident and was lying in the hospital in a coma, and all of this, was an illusion. The reckoning of his subconsciousness for all the things he had done - or better not done. For a moment it was, as if he would lose balance, while blackness started to invade his field of view. 

_‘Get yourself a grip!’_ he yelled in his head. _‘You can’t faint now!’_

He leaned over, his hands on his upper thighs, his head down, to bring the blood back into his system, “No, no, no!” This was not a coma, this was not a nightmare. 

“Randall?” she stepped closer, bowing down in an awkward bend of her body. “Are you okay?” 

When he felt he was able to talk and walk again, he shot up, reaching out for her without touching, “The letter! What happened with the letter I gave you before I left?”

Nicola almost tripped over by his sudden movement, “Letter?”

“Before I left, I gave you a letter, for Miss Oswald,” his voice was a low, dangerous growl. “Where did you put it?”

Hectically Nicola sorted out her memories, “Oh, yes, I remember,... I … I placed it in her mail compartment.” 

“You did what? I told you, to give it to her personally,” why had he given the letter to her? How insane to believe she would have been the right person for it.

Nicola sensed she had made mistake, but was not aware of how fatal the outcome had been, “I couldn’t. I was at this symposium, this conference. That’s why I placed it into her mail compartment.” Randall stared at her for ten long seconds. “I mean, what else could I have done?”

“Show me!” he ordered. “Show me, where you placed it!” He couldn’t imagine that Clara had reacted the way she had, when she had gotten his message. Something must have gone horrible wrong. Nicola nodded and walked with him toward the room where the mail compartments where. She needed a moment to find the right segment and her finger hovered in the air, her eyes scanning the names that were placed under each compartment. 

“Ah, here,” she pointed out to one of the compartments. Clara’s name was still on it. “Here. I placed it here.”

Randall saw how she pointed out to it, saw how she placed her finger for a short moment onto the wooden shelf, that should carry all the mails, news and memos the teachers got and then he understood what Nicola had done wrong. 

Directly under Clara’s shelf was an unused shelf, the shelf Nicola had placed her finger on. He stepped closer and bend his knees to take a look and there it laid, his letter, at the back of the ownerless compartment. His hand reached for it, “You placed it in the wrong compartment. The names are under it, not over it!”

Nicola swallowed, “Yes, I … see. I always mix that up.”

“You mix it up?” it was a hiss, and Randall’s posture went into something what Nicola only could describe as an early form of attack, before he would make her his prey. Unintentionally he creased the letter in his hand. 

When he saw Nicola’s fearful eyes he found back into reality, stepping back from her with a sharp inhalation of air, holding up his hand with splayed fingers, not only as a silent apology for his behaviour, more as a shield against the stupidity in the room. “Clara Oswald.”

For once Nicola didn’t asked a question because of her lack of understanding, “She left us last week. She resigned. I came back from the conference and two days later she had resigned.”

“Where did she go?”

“I don’t know,” Nicola shook her head. “She only said, it were about personal reasons. I guess she went to London because of her father - he had a heart attack a few weeks ago.”

“So she went to London?” Randall hopeful that this could be a good lead.

“I’m not sure, she didn’t tell me anything, it’s just a guess,” she shrugged. It was not important to her. She had a new teacher and that’s all she needed. Someone who would do Clara’s work. 

“Will you do me a favour, Nicola?” he said after a long pause.

“Of course.”

“Remind me, that I’ll present you a special towel for Christmas this year.” 

He needed sleep, he needed rest. He needed Clara. No, this was not a nightmare. Everything, the pain, the dull feeling in his head and body, and the certainty that he had lost everything, was real. 

When he left the school again, he ran into Freddy, but the only thing he could do was stare at him. Randall was in shock, and shook his head as if to say, he couldn’t talk now. “Tomorrow.”

He couldn’t remember how he reached home. He didn’t remember how he got into his car, driving home, walking up the stairs and opening his apartment with his keys. He remembered none of it, when he woke up at four in the morning, still his jumper on, on top of his bedspreads. His glasses laid on the floor by his shoes. He had slept 15 hours straight, so exhausted he had been. A dreamless sleep. There was no need to dream, his life had become one - a real nightmare. 

His hands clutched into the sheets, and first he began to sob into the pillow, his body jerked and the pain got unbearable. Then he arched his back and started to yell into the cushion, pressing his face hard into it, his hands ripping at the thin cover of his bed till it ripped apart. It took him only a minute to channelize his sorrow. It didn’t made the situation better, though it helped him to not lose his mind on the spot. 

After that he stepped into the shower, and let the burning hot water redden his skin. He shaved and put on one of his suits, it was all an automatism. 

With each garment he built up his wall again, hid the pain away, the guilt and the knowledge that he was a useless man, and that he must have hurt Clara so much, that she had decided it was better to leave the University and the town to bring a wide distance between him and her. 

Randall had lost everything, except his job. He now perceived that he got no satisfaction out of it - since years already. It was a lie. Everything. 

He would go on, he would deal with it, like he always did, when bad things happened. He would go on stoically, ignoring his heart that told him what he should do, aside he was afraid. In his opinion he didn’t deserve happiness. Not after Lix, not after Sofia, and most of all not after what he had done to Clara. 

Yes, he would go on - alone.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Let me take a wild guess, it was not happening in this chapter what you thought it would? 
> 
> There are still two more chapters waiting plus an epilogue! So we are getting close to the end...however the end will look like ;).
> 
> Next chapter; how about Friday?


	26. 26_Decisions to make

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Sometimes you need someone to push you into the right direction.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I can say, I haven't introduced Freddy and Danny for nothing!

_**One week later.** _

Randall had forbidden himself to feel - to think about what had happened. He worked long and hard, ate less and even had bought a bottle of whiskey. Not for drinking it, more as a torture, placing it in front of him, to harrow himself - knowing he really could need a drink. Taking one would lead into an abyss, he knew he never would leave when once the path was taken. 

He reincorporated again into work and into old habits, of standing up early, eating alone and being alone. The worst that had happened, was him running into Danny Pink, who didn’t say anything. The young man judging him with his stone-cold expression, and the only thing Randall had been able to do, was to look down and go the other way. 

Freddy had done a good job in representing the department and taking care about business, and so he ordered him into his office after the morning press was dealt with. 

“You did a really good job, Freddy,” Randall signed some papers, while Freddy stood in front of his desk, looking around like he always did. Like a curious cat, ready to throw something off a shelf or so. It was a behaviour that had made Randall nervous in the first few month when Freddy had became his student, but he assumed it was a habit of the young man and somehow a clever quirk of making others unsure about himself. A journalist needed to be like this, and Randall started to find it rather amusing and effective. He placed the pen aside and looked at the young man, waiting for a response. “I am sure you had some things to deal with in the last four weeks, I will write you a good recommendation letter.”

Freddy smirked slightly over his offer, but was all unimpressed. Randall would have written him one anyway. And it was not what was in his head right now. He already had plans for his future and when everything would go like he thought it would go, he already had made his pile. 

As the curious persona he was, he had observed Randall since his return attentively. Had never said anything, till now, because it seemed to him it was the right moment, “So, is it true then?” 

Randall had gone back to the papers, “What?”

Freddy made a step forward, without Randall noticing it, “That Miss Oswald is gone. She has left forever, the rumours say,” it made Randall look up. Freddy knew very well what was true and what wasn’t and that rumours were long facts.

Uneasy with the topic and unwilling to have this conversation with him he did indifferent. “How should I know?”

Freddy escaped a flimsy, sarcastic laugh, “How _you_ should know?” The tone of his voice slipped him. “If _you_ don’t know, who else does?”

Randall placed the pen aside with a soft thud, “What makes you say that?”

“Well,” Freddy began faking immense courage, “you two did spent considerable time together, didn’t you? I would even dare to say you were-”

“-Don’t dare, Mister Lyon,” Randall stood up out of his chair with a steely expression. “You better don’t.”

Freddy copied Randall’s posture, shoving one of his hands into his pockets, “Then … I don’t.”

A moment of silence built up in the room and Randall thought about what to do next, how to proceed with the young apprentice. Freddy turned around on his heels to walk over to his books, but Randall knew, this was a stalling technique. 

“It is said she has gone back to London, teaching at a local school,” he let the cat out of the bag.

“As I said, how should I know?” he slowly walked around his desk. “If there are rumours, they probably have their offspring somewhere. It is - in the end - Miss Oswald’s business, not yours or mine!”

“Really?” he turned toward him again and in his voice was the clear tone of mocking. 

“I am not a child minder,” Randall shoved his second hand into his pockets to hide the fists he made.

Freddy scratched himself in the back of his neck, doing as if he was thinking, “I can’t remember Miss Oswald being a child. I honestly thought she was a grown woman of … what? 31? A fine woman, actually,” Freddy didn’t let Randall frighten him.

He had enough wits to stand his ground. The only thing his teacher could do, was to kick him out of his office or give him bad grades the next time - something he wouldn’t do, he was a too correct man. “Even I didn’t know her much, I really liked her.”

Randall only scowled at him. Yes, he could throw him out of the office, but it would be only a delay in Freddy’s teasing. He would say what he wanted to say to him eventually. He kept quiet.

After a long pause he added, “And I think you did too.”

Randall made a step forward, “And I think it is none of your business.”

“Of course not,” Freddy grinned, watching Randall come closer. “I just thought, when you would ask me-”

“-I haven’t asked you.”

He chuckled before saying, “No, you didn’t. You never will. But who else you could ask, actually? You’re not really a very ... socialising man. You have nobody to ask about your personal life and I guess, aside me - thanks to my youthful zeal - no one ever will tell you an advice,” Freddy slowly had talked himself into a slight rage. “So, I don’t care if you will listen, I will just give it to you, and you can make of it whatever you want.”

“You talk a lot today, Freddy,” Randall turned away, toward the corkboard, and started to rearrange the articles that hung there.

“She will not come back, you know that hopefully,” he waited till his teacher had moved two little piece of papers, then he went on in a sharp voice. “She will not show up on your doorstep, in case there is a ridiculous hope of you, that she will.”

Randall turned around brusquely, “Why should she ever? What reason there would?”

“Oh, you know damn well!” Freddy spat. “I couldn’t make something of it, when I ran into her the last day she was here. I wanted to tell her about the library and the missing books, but she was in a hurry and in a ... let’s say, a slightly ungainly state. Crying, to be precise. She brushed it off, and so did I. Only realized a bit later what seemed to be the matter. You! You were and are the matter. She left because of you, or better your wordless absence, and I can guarantee you, that she will not come back, unless-”

“-Unless what? So many advices at once, Mister Lyon?” Randall lost his temper, stepping dangerously close, holding up a finger. 

Freddy didn’t move, kept his ground. This was important for him, for whatever reason, “And there are all for free, Mister Brown.”

“You are suggesting, I should go after her, don’t you? Like a young, lovestruck boy in one of these fancy modern movies you and your girlfriend like to watch?”

“Quite peculiar thought,” Freddy smirked over his words, ignoring his try to attack him personally. “I can’t claim for the young or the boy, but the lovestruck seem to fit very well.”

“When you want to mock someone, Freddy, you better look for some other target.”

Freddy kept quiet, not for good, he was waiting, and Randall knew that. The young man hadn’t pulled of his ace yet. Randall inhaled deeply and wanted to turn around, when Freddy rose his voice again;

“A man I really respect and admire for his work as a journalist once told me, that a man has no more character, than he can command in crisis,” he waited till he saw the remembrance in Randall’s eyes. He had used the words, when Freddy was in his first year doing his first work in front of a live camera. “A wise man, but utterly stubborn and frightened to the end.”

The words hit Randall hard, and in defence his fingertips trailed around the knot of his tie. “Is he?” he then asked all quiet and taken aback. “Stubborn and frightened?”

“It seems so,” Freddy looked outside the window behind Randall, feeling the sadness that now lingered in the room. “I can’t say otherwise, because it seems, that the best thing that has happened to him in years, he is about to let it slip away.”

Randall’s eyes found Lix camera, he had placed by the books in the shelf. 

_‘Shouldn’t you tell her?’_

“It is complicated Mister Lyon.”

“Isn’t it always? Everything is, when you watch it from a certain angle,” Freddy couldn’t offer real help, only words and a kick into the right direction. 

“Do you suggest, I simply change my angle of view, and everything will be fine? There are many many problems,” he looked down at himself, at his hands, having wrinkles and it made Freddy laugh.

“Is this really one of your problems, that she is a few years younger than you? Because it is totally common today that pairs have an age gap. No one will care about.”

“Mister Lyon!”

“She will not come back to you! Even when she loves you and you love her!”

Randall gapped at him helplessly. “I think, we're getting here a bit too personal. You’re still my student and I am your teacher.” He knew what Freddy suggested. He should go after her. Better today as tomorrow. 

No, it was not about the age gap, at least not mainly, but it was a fact. It was also about his quirks, his inability to go with his feelings, to trust, to give in. He wanted it so badly, but what was the outcome of his tries? When one could call it a try. He had hurt Clara, as Lix had hurt him once, years ago. It was like he passed on his sorrow to her. 

There must be a way, he thought. Maybe Freddy was right, to push him into the right direction, because no one ever had done this to him. “Why? Why are you doing this?”

“Because when you go after her, I have a good chance getting your job till they find someone new, what will take months, and make my name stuck,” Freddy answered all smug.

Randall gave it a shake with the head, “And I shall believe that?”

“Believe whatever you want, Sir. I have my reasons,” the boy smirked. “Maybe I just like you two together.”

For a few more moments, Freddy swayed on the spot, waiting for a final word or a dismissal of his teacher. Randall, gave him a short nod, and sent him away with it, to be left alone with his thoughts and doubts about his current doing, that the young man had cast in him. 

He sat himself back at his desk, staring at the pen, that still laid there and placed it from one side to the next. Then he stacked his papers, way to long, till he felt they would now lay accurately one above the other. His fingertips trailed over his desk and started to move things - he didn’t wanted to do this. Sudden he pulled in his hands, and placed them around himself, holding his upper body, and preventing his hands to do stupid things. 

He had forbidden himself to think, but the heart seldom does what the head wants. How often he had hoped for a wonder? For her to come back, through this old door, holding two paper mugs in her hand, smiling. For her to call. Randall placed his right hand onto the left side of his chest, feeling the emptiness and there he knew he had only two possibilities. 

Die old and alone, with a list of regrets and with Clara on his mind, the woman he had fallen for and the only thing he could do was hurt her or he could stand up and fight, once in his life. 

###

No rash decisions, he had told himself once, and that’s why he found himself in front of Danny Pinks door not until two days later. After the pressure in his chest, the yearning for Clara had became unbearable. 

He wished he could tell himself that he wasn’t nervous, like all the times back in his old jobs, when he had went to some narrow minded producers to tell them why he had decided to report about riots in the country and not about some boring cabinets session. 

Randall checked his suit once more, and then knocked at the door. 

“Come in,” a voice sounded and Randall took a deep breath and entered. 

“Just a minute,” Danny was rummaging around in a box behind his desk, looking for an old math book he knew he had somewhere. 

After all the time he had wasted, Randall decided he hadn’t a minute and made himself felt, “Mister Pink.”

Danny’s head rose over the familiar, Scottish voice, and he let go of the box, without turning around yet. He hadn’t thought this confrontation would happen, also he had hoped for it immensely. Giving the box a smirk, he brought a severe expression onto his face before turning around, “Mister Brown.” Danny stood up. 

Randall nodded slightly, unsure what to say and what to expect from him. He waited for a few seconds, guessing he might would release a storm of accusations over him, but Danny kept quiet and rose his eyebrows to tell him, what was the matter.

“You can imagine why I am here?”

An ironic smile played around his mouth, “I have no clue.” 

This wouldn’t be easy, and Randall hadn’t expected it to be. He shifted, letting his eyes roam around the room. His office was small and overpacked and all the organized chaos nagged him. When he came to the corkboard aside from him, he needed to look away to keep the urge down to rearrange it. When he was not looking, Danny smirked pleased over the older man’s reaction. He knew about his OCD, and after all that had happened, he found satisfaction in the knowledge that his office made Randall uncomfortable. 

“There is no mathematical formula hidden in this chaos, Mister Brown,” Danny teased. “In case you were wondering. It’s simply chaos.”

Randall brought himself to smile for a second, what looked rather abstract, “I noticed.” He held his breath.

“So, are you here to rearrange my books, or…,” Danny made a continuing hand gesture. 

Breathing out, “I have a request.”

“You have a request? I don’t give private lessons,” he knew he should feel miserable in finding so much fun in this, but he owed it to Clara in some way. He had seen her the day she had left. No more tears, but all empty inside. Heart ripped out by the man that now stood in front of him. 

Randall ignored his way of mocking, “I need to-”

“-No.”

“Excuse me?”

“No,” Danny repeated, pointing out to the door. “You don’t deserve it. You don’t deserve her.”

For a moment Randall was about to turn around and leave, then the pain inside of him told him, it wouldn’t go away if he wouldn’t do something about it, “You should not judge me, for the things you not fully understand, Mister Pink.”

“Oh, I don’t judge you, Mister Brown,” Danny leaned back against his desk, arms crossed. “That would give you way too much attention, you definitely not deserve after what has happened. I don’t even believe you are a bad person, but it is evidently that Clara did not left this place to move back to London because she liked the weather there better.”

“It was a misunderstanding,” Randall said. “It still is.”

“Whatever it is, or whatever it was. On purpose, or a misunderstanding - and I am willing to believe you this - Clara deserves more, than a misunderstanding. You are an intelligent man, you don’t lack any experience, you can’t make excuses because you are a helpless twenty something! You should have tried harder, Mister Brown, that’s all you need to do, when it comes to her.”

Randall had never acknowledged Danny Pink since this moment. He was always only a side note for him. A friend of Clara, and he only had his little shining moment, when he had assumed Danny had been Clara’s boyfriend for a while, but after that he had vanished in the corners for unimportant things in Randall’s head. 

Now this changed, and not only because he needed Danny Pink, to get to Clara, to find out where she taught and lived. It would have been easy for Clara’s friend to tell him to get lost, to be rude and to simply tell him, how rotten he really was. Danny didn’t, he scolded him and still made clear that he had high opinions of him, regardless what he had done. Danny separated well between Randall the teacher and Randall the private person. 

He was disappointed in Randall, because it had been hard to see Clara go, see her being hurt by someone he had high hopes in. Danny was convinced that Randall was, an odd, but perfect match for Clara, and now he didn’t know what to think. He had always a good sense for people, so how did it came, that he was so wrong about Randall? Maybe he wasn’t, but that depended now on the delinquenten himself. 

Randall knew, to find Clara he needed to open up to Danny, if he liked it or not, “You might not believe me, after what has happened, and I can understand if you deny my request for Clara’s where about, but … I’m not only want to try harder, I will try harder.”

“Adventures words, for someone like you,” Danny chuckled.

“You mean for a man, people call a ghost?” Randall knew how to stand his ground. Danny’s words stung, but he had a master in taking it gracefully.

“Yes,” the young man’s eyes flickered over Randall’s stature. Clara wouldn’t be happy, if she would know that he had told him her address, what he decided to ignore because Clara was not able to be a judge for it. Sorrow and love sickness were talented factors to veil ones objective opinion. 

“She cried, three days straight,” he wanted to spread out the sorrow Randall had effected. “And then, she stopped, with eyes like from a dead person. She had emptied herself, and I don’t want to know what she has done, when she had been alone at home. She probably had cut her heart out, because it had hurt so much. And it was you, who did this! So you know.”

Randall’s jaw clenched about the facts he just had heard, “I want to fix this.”

Danny was caught between rage and grief, “She works at Coal Hill School. London.”

Randall exhaled loudly, nodding thankfully, “Thank you, Mister Pink.”

“If,” Danny called out, making him stop by the door, “if you hurt her…” It was not a threat, but a warning. Danny wouldn’t and couldn’t do anything, when Randall would return and he would hear from her, that the journalist had pained her even more, but he would tell him every day. When they would meet in the hall, not with words, but with his eyes, knowing Randall was one who couldn’t quickly forget. 

“I won’t, Mister Pink. I seldom give promises to people I don’t know well, but I give it to you, that I am going to fix this. However it will turn out, but I am going to fix this,” Randall brushed over his tie, nodded and then left.

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Next stop, London!  
> Final Chapter plus Epilogue ... Sunday. This story comes to an end. Will there be an happy end?


	27. 27_Forget Tomorrow

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Randall comes to London. Will he find Clara? And when yes, can she forgive him? Can they work this out? Will there be an Happy End? Find out in this last Chapter!

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Are you excited, guys? I am!

It was around nine thirty on a Thursday, when Clara entered her classroom, to teach about English and English Literature.

“Okay, be frank with me, “ she started, slapping her bag onto the table. “Who of you hasn’t done the essay I told you to do last week?”

A heavy silence aroused in the classroom and no one reacted to her question.

“Tyler? Did you do it?” Clara knew her students.

“Yes, ma’am,” the young boy sat straight up.

“Sure? Because I can see the fear in your eyes,” Clara made a smacking sound with her mouth.

“W-well,...” Tyler began to stutter. “No, I didn’t.”

She rolled her eyes, “Damn Tyler! You told me you liked the book and you have read it.”

“Most of it, yes, but, it’s… I don’t know.”

“Who else hasn’t done it?” Clara asked again into the round and three hands shot up. “Damn people! Al right. You four will give me a verbal lecture tomorrow morning about the book, and no arguing, or you’ll all receive an F on it.”

Half of the class groaned over her orders. The four who weren’t keen on doing it and the others who were not keen on listening to it. “Stop complaining, you're very well know Mister Richmond would have let you fail without a second chance. You guys remember what I always tell you?”

“Second chances are rare,” Tyler mumbled.

Clara made a pleased face, “Exactly,” she clapped her hands together. “Okay, lets move on. Turn to page 48, first paragraph. Courtney, maybe?”

Courtney Woods, second row, made a bored face, and opened her book, “Can’t we watch the film version of it?”

“No, we can’t,” Clara was sick to death of arguing with her students about each and every thing she wanted them to do, but deep in her heart she liked her new job. It was different to the University and the payment was not that well, but it was the only school who wanted to have her in such short notice after one of her teachers had early retired because of health problems.

And she liked her students, they were witty and smart, but annoying. She would form them, it would take a while, but she was willing to teach them what was necessary to survive in this world.

Yes, second changes were rare. And so she had decided to move on.

She had packed her stuff in under a week, with the help of Danny and Sissy, who tried their best to convince her, that she might should think about her decision for longer than just two days. A rash decision. Yes, it was one, a necessary one, and the only thing that seemed to keep the pain at bay, the broken heart in check. It hurt her to leave Danny and Sissy, she had become fond of them, and she would miss them, but staying would mean to face Randall Brown in some sort of way. The Caledonian ghost, who eloped to Spain for an affair. No, she couldn’t bare the talks, that would arise eventually. Like the book _“101 places to see”_ she had banned in a mood into the basement, she banned her job and life in Glasgow and knew, like the book, she would get over it.

Courtney was just about to finish the first sentence, when there was a loud knock on the door. Clara huffed, it was probably her headmaster, who had checked on her several times since she had started working here. About to write something on the blackboard, she invited the disturber in.

The door went open and Clara could do nothing else but stare, the chalk in her hand, now drawing a long line downwards. For a moment it was dead silent in the classroom, till the door swung close and clicked shut. That gave a new impulse to everybody in the room.

Clara’s pupils started to shift on their stools, move around papers, rummaging through pencil cases, doing turnarounds and little whispers.

“Clara,” Randall’s eyes flickered for a short moment through the room, taking in all the kids sitting around and alternated their looks between him and Clara. He tried to blank them out, while stepping closer.

“Randall,” Clara uttered, putting the chalk away, looking at her students, unsure how to react in their presence. She needed a second, then her face turned from surprise to stone. “I have class.”

Randall eyed the kids once more, they made him nervous, he wasn’t used to so many children all in an age of pre-puberty and aware that they were predestined for doing and saying unforeseen things.

“Can you come outside?”

Clara felt rage rise in her, and so she said very harsh, “I said I have class. There is the door,” she pointed behind him.

Some of her students caught the tense mood of their teacher, leaning back into their stools exchanging dignifying glances.

“Miss?” it came from the second row.

“Yes, Courtney?” Clara didn’t look at her, but turned away from Randall, who stood by the door, fumbling with his fingers at the edge of his jacket.

“Who is this, Miss?” even Courtney had caught onto the shifting atmosphere in the room, she seemed to ignore it and did what she could do best. Asking question about business that was none of hers.

Both Clara and Randall eyed the girl who had asked the question. Randall had no intention in answering the question. First the question was not directed at him and he was in fear Clara would expel him immediately, when he would say something.

“No one,” Clara answered in a tone, that should mean she not wanted to hear any other questions, but Courtney was very unimpressed by it.

“Doesn’t look like no one,” the girl stated and turned to Clara’s disapproval to Randall. “Who are you, Sir?”

He cleared his throat, eyeing Clara, but she simply looked away from him, shaking her head. “I am … Mister Brown,” Randall answered her then with only a short look before his eyes settled down on the ground again.

“And your first name is Randall?”

Now he looked longer at her. She leaned with crossed arms back in her stool. The girl was a trouble maker, he could sense that, but right now she just seemed curious. He cocked an eyebrow at her, rubbing his hands together, “Yes, Randall Brown, that’s correct.”

The curiosity of Courtney seemed to infect others, because when Randall wanted to repeat his request to step outside with Clara, another boy began to speak, “Are you a new teacher?”

“No, I am not,” it was to him as if he was in an interrogation room and not in Clara’s classroom and he thought about to stop answering questions, because that was not the reason he had came for.

“So what are you then?” a third student asked and Randall understood that this was maybe the only way to Clara - over her students, also it didn’t help him concentrate and he lost his patience for a moment, “You kids ask a lot of questions, don’t you think?”

“That’s what Miss Oswald teaches us,” Courtney quickly answered and Randall turned toward Clara again for help he knew she wouldn’t give him. There was only a shrug and a gesture that seemed to mean _‘Deal with it’_.

He was not good in playing games, but he was good in being a journalist, good with words, so he turned completely with his front toward the class, “What is she teaching you?”

“English,” a girl in the back answered him.

“That’s not what I meant,” Randall huffed. “You - Courtney? - is Miss Oswald teaching you to ask questions or is she teaching you curiosity, because it’s not the same.”

“Of course it is,” Tyler called out.

“No, it’s not!” Randall made a step toward the desk, touching the surface, unsure why he stood in the middle of a class room leading a discussion. “You can ask questions all you like, it brings you nothing, when you don’t know what to make of it,” he gave a dramatic pause to give the kids time to understand what he was telling them. “You need curiosity to ask the right questions and to make something out of the information you gather through your questions. Have we understood each other?”

The class started to nod, mixed with some “Yes, Mister Brown.” He was almost a bit proud but also very disturbed by the scene.

So he made his third attempt to get Clara’s attention when Courtney interrupted once more, “So what are you then, when you are not a teacher?”

Randall turned to Clara again, seeking for help, for understanding.

“I told you it is class,” she answered him coolly.

“I am a journalist and I am here to talk to Miss Oswald,” he gave Courtney his sternest face, what seemed not to impress her.

“Why?”

Randall huffed. This girl was worse than Freddy. “It’s a private matter,” he turned away again, now fixed on Clara. “I need to talk to you.” This time he laid more pressure into his words and for half a second he could see a reaction in her he couldn’t read. It was maybe surprise or maybe something like _‘how dare you speak to me’_.

“And I don’t want to talk to you,” was all she said before turning to Courtney. “Page 48, please.”

Courtney eyed first Clara, then Randall. She sensed something was going on, something that would prevent the class from reading this ridiculous book. Though she opened the book again, very slowly, and it was to Randall as if she gave him time, to interrupt, and that’s what he did.

“I came back to find your apartment empty,” he raised his voice, holding out a hand to Courtney, to tell her she was not allowed to read. “And that you have resigned your position in Glasgow.”

Clara placed the chalk she had grabbed again when she had told Courtney to read, onto the table with a loud thud, “Well, I came back from London, to find your office empty and people telling me, you had left for Spain. Without a word, a note, anything, you just left. What do you think I was supposed to think and do?”

“It’s a misunderstanding,” was the only thing he could say.

“Is it? So you're now telling me, you weren’t in Spain, with Miss Storm - Lix -, for the last four weeks?”

“Who is Lix?” Courtney spoke up once more and earned a harsh

“Shut up!” from both of them.

“I was in Spain,” Randall quickly went on to prevent further interruptions, “and I was with Lix, but-”

“-No, Randall!” she exclaimed. “There is no but, that is all I need to know. You should better leave now. We are finished here, and I have still twenty minutes class here.”

He knew he had luck that her students were there, else she might had spoken truly to him, about her being hurt, him being an idiot and what else not. Clara motioned to Courtney one more time and made her finally read the paragraph and Randall knew he had failed. He turned around and left the room.

The voice of the young girl came muffled through the door, while Randall stood in the corridor, staring down the hall.

_‘You should have tried harder, Mister Brown.’_

He turned around, it was time to do something. Something that mattered, and decided he wanted to try and fail, as not to try and never come to rest.

The metal doorknob felt electric, when he touched it, then he closed his eyes for a moment, listening to his own breathing and heartbeat. The door clicked and Courtney's voice became clearer, when he entered the room again.

“No!” this time he didn’t look away, he held her gaze. “I made many mistakes, but this time I will do something right here. I am not gonna leave, till you have listened to me.”

“I think they are in love or something,” one of the boys whispered over to his desk neighbour.

Randall and Clara could both hear it, but decided to ignore it.

“Your boyfriend seems to mean it, Miss,” Courtney sputtered with her lips, obviously a bit unnerved from the two adults in front of her.

“He is not my boyfriend!” Clara shouted impatient and Randall’s eyebrows went up into an arch. “I mean-”

“-then it’s your fiancée, he looks to old to be a boyfriend anyway.”

“You are very cheeky, Miss…?” Randall turned to Courtney.

“Woods. Courtney Woods, Mister Brown,” she answered him as if she wanted to tell him, he better remember her name for the future, when she maybe would become president or the first woman on the moon, or what ever.

He nodded in silent appreciation, “I am not her fiancée, Miss Woods. At least not yet.” He didn’t know why he had added the last part. Probably it was Courtney Woods bravado that rubbed off on him.

“What?” Clara broke out.

“I think he is here to propose to her,” Tyler slammed his head onto the desk, imitating some gagging noises.

“What?” Clara blurted out again, spinning her head between Randall, the class and the desk.

“What kind of class is this, Clara? These kids are horrible, actually!” the words slipped out of his mouth in soft horror.

“Are you?” Clara called out in not so soft horror. “Here to propose?”

In what had he gotten himself into? “No, of course not! I… well… do you want me to?”

“No!”

“You better say yes, Miss, you are not that young anymore,” Courtney said dryly. “You said it yourself, second chances are rare.”

“What?” Randall gasped.

“That’s what she is teaching us, second chances are rare,” Courtney shrugged unsure what was so important at her words. “So, do you ask her now or not?”

“Okay, that’s it!” Randall turned on his heels toward the class again. “Dismissed! You are all dismissed. No homework, just … go!”

They all only stared at him, so he repeated himself with a louder tone, leaning forward, so he would reach even the last row, “Go, or I'll make you learn three sonnets from Shakespeare!”

The kids quickly rose, grabbed their stuff and left in a hurry. Courtney, too, but not without giving both of them a certain look.

Randall followed the kids to the door, making sure, everyone would leave and not linger around. Then he closed the door and turned around to Clara, only to find her directly in front of him, “Glasses!”

“What?”

“Glasses,” she motioned to his face, and he took off his glasses and held them out to her. Instead of taking them, she raised her hand and gave him a hard slap into his face.

Randall groaned loud and almost lost balance, so hard she had hit him. His left hand covered his cheek, his ears were buzzing and his skin burning. “That hurt.”

“I hope so,” she doted down his glasses, he could place them back on again. “I damn well hope it hurt. And now go away!”

“Clara-,” he began but she didn’t let him.

“No, go, please just go!” she urged, she not wanted to talk to him and so turned around to walk away, even she didn’t know where to hide in the small classroom.

“I know you think I left to Spain, because I wanted to be with Lix,” Randall followed her carefully. “I left you a message before I left, but it never reached you,” he pulled the letter he had written for her out of the inner pocket of his jacket and held it out to her. “See?”

Clara turned around for a short moment, seeing the letter only to turn around again, “And I shall believe you this?”

“I can’t expect it, no,” he looked helplessly at his hand with the letter, and decided in the end to place it onto the desk. “I didn’t went to Spain for romance. Lix is dead, she wrote me that she was dying, and I knew I needed to go, to close this chapter in my life. Come to an agreement with my past, to have a future with you,” he didn’t know if he was telling Clara all about this, or more the story to himself.

Clara was by the window, watching him turn to the blackboard, one finger rubbing this one nagging little spot away - the one that didn’t go away and even nagged her all the time. She listened to him, and when he told her about Lix, she saw how many things obviously had gone wrong.

“I wrote you this letter, and gave it to Nicola Murray,” he needed to laugh over the irony in his mistakes.

Clara smiled unseen, and needed no further explanation why the letter hadn’t reached her. The name Nicola Murray seemed to be enough as a reason.

“In Spain,... I tried to call you, I think you received the call,” he was still rubbing around the spot, sour that it didn’t went away. One last glare and he turned around to her.

“Yes, I did,” it was the phone call that had made her go. “Very bad connection, the words that came through, where probably not the one you really said.”

He nodded, and could very well imagine what she had heard.

“You made many mistakes,” Clara rose a finger to sign him, she hadn’t finished. “So did I, and maybe this is not meant to be.”

He moved forward, and his lips formed the word, “No,” without giving it a sound.

“You better go now,” the rage was gone, and left was calmness and he never had felt more fear in his life. Randall could take her rage, her fury and her fire, what he not could take was her silent way of telling him; it was over.

His lips went dry, “One more thing.”

“No!” she whispered. “You leave now, Mister Brown.”

Tears started to wet his eyes, and he need to take of his glasses once more, to rub them away, “I will, and I promise I never talk to you again, when it is what you want. I do whatever you like, but let me say one last thing. One last _important_ thing,” he wanted to do his tie, reshuffle some books, move the left side of the desk a bit more to the right, try to clean this one persistent chalk spot from the blackboard, even when he would make a hole in it. He wanted to do all this, every fibre in his body was telling him, but every fibre of his heart was daring him not to and he knew he had to face his fears - now.

“It hurt!” she yelled. “I can’t even explain to you, how much it hurt. Not here!” she motioned around her body with her hands. “But here!” she placed a finger on her temple, “and here,” and placed her hand on her heart. “It’s like falling, Randall, like a endless, unbearable fall, that never ends. Falling into darkness, into the deepest shadows of your mind and the worst thing is, you know you not able to leave soon. And that there is the danger, you might never leave again. Do you know how that feels?”

He shuddered over some tears, “I know it! I’ve been there, and I am so, so sorry. I never wanted to hurt you, please Clara!”

“Do you think, a sorry helps?”

“No, it doesn’t.”

“Do us a favour, Randall, go home!”

“Just… one more thing, please!” he begged, knowing he was at her mercy.

“Oh, for god sake!” Clara waved her hands around wildly, her tone betraying her inner turmoil. She was close to tears, close to break down. He had hurt her, not only a bit. Randall had broken her heart and she wanted to let him know that, but she didn’t wanted to show him what mess she really was. Every second he was in the same room with her, brought her closer to tears and a breakdown, but she knew he wouldn’t go away, so she let him speak. “Quick!”

His right hand was about to touch his tie, fast he brought it down again, now not knowing what to do with his hands. In the end he decided to let them hang aside his body, slightly fiddling with his thumbs.

“I love you!”

Clara’s body leaned back an inch. Her expression asking if she had heard right.

“Clara Oswald, I love you! And let me tell you, I never ever have said this words before. Even to the people I loved. I failed so much with people and with life and I am no boyfriend material. I have wrecked the best thing that has happened to me since years, because I am an idiot, because I was too afraid. My life is dictated by fear, I never dared anything in my private life. Never! I always went the easy way. And I deserve your anger, even your hate. I deserve to end up alone, after what I have done to you. Yes, I needed to do this, to see Lix, but I should have taken better care of it, to avoid the disaster. I should have went with you to London. And also I should have trusted you more,” his eyes had wandered off, down to the ground, with his losing confidence. After something what felt like forever he looked back at her. Clara was still standing where she was before, and her expression hadn’t changed much.

Randall was sure he had lost her. Not today, but long ago. “I am sorry. You deserve better.”

When she had gotten the telephone call, and when she had finally had found the strength to get a cab and to drive home to fall crying into her bed, she had promised herself never ever again to fall for someone like him. In this night, with less sleep and many tears she had told herself to move on, to move away from Randall, and to build walls, to hide her broken heart behind it. She had felt love before, but with him, it had been different from the start. The way they had found each other, the way they had both fallen for each other.

After she had heard he had left to Spain, in assumption that he wanted to return to Lix, she had found herself thinking about their first date, at the dinner. It could have been a wonderful fond memory, that had been turned into a burning open wound, ready to become an ugly scar. Like all the other memories, the way he held her when he had kissed her the first time, and when he had made love to her.

After two days, she knew she had to leave Glasgow. Everything else would have been torture. She hadn’t thought about if Randall would ever return, and if why. Doubt had become certainty and with that, she had shut out every possibility of a happy end.

And then this. Him. Standing in her classroom. Coming after her. Wasn’t it this, what she had always dreamed off, deep down in her heart, by the little spot, that was still alive and helplessly in love with him?

Randall saw how lost in reverie she was, and he took it as a stepping back from him. A retreat for good. He started to nod slightly, it was time to go home, drink down the grief.

With a big deal of force he turned away from her. Hadn’t she become the light of his life in the last half year?

He heard paper rustling, and guessed she had taken the letter in hands he had placed at the table, “Do you mean it?”

He stopped, not turning around, “Of course. You deserve better.”

“No,” she stretched the word conspicuously long, “that you love me?”

It made Randall turn around, because words like this you say into the face of the other, “Without hesitation or regret, yes. I love you. And I am sorry what I did, I would give my life for reversing it. You mean _everything_ to me!” his accent now broke through again. “And you always will.”

Clara took in a long breath, and then held it. Her mind was blank and she waited for the first best thing that would come to it. Randall waited patiently aside each second that passed drained the life and hope out of him.

Fifty seven seconds later, she opened her eyes again, “Come back tomorrow.”

His hand brushed through his hair, not sure what she wanted to express with her command, “Tomorrow? What is tomorrow?”

“Because maybe tomorrow, I say yes,” Clara watched his hands fumble with each other and smiled softly over the observation.

“And what if you don’t say yes tomorrow,” yes, meant, she would forgive him. Yes meant, they should try again. Yes meant, no misunderstanding would part them. “What then?”

“Then you come back the next day, and the next,” Clara had left the room already. Her body was there, while her mind had decided to stop time for a moment. “And the next.”

“Clara?”

“Come back tomorrow.”

Randall nodded. There was nothing more he could do. She wouldn’t let him come through, not even when he would fall on his knees. He had reached the end of possibilities and so he left the room.

He had came to London directly from Glasgow. He had no hotel, no clothes for changing and only 50 pounds with him. He never had felt so lost and so alone in his whole life. Deciding to walk a few meters, he stepped to a large glass front, that gave view to the school yard where the kids took a break. He had nothing better to do anyway, so he simply could stand there and wait for an idea, or for his heart to break apart till nothing was left of him anymore.

 

When Randall had left the room, the door had went shut, Clara found herself standing by the desk, one hand touching the surface and her eyes fell on the letter all wrinkly and a bit torn at one corner. She swallowed and reached for the letter, Randall had left behind, and opened it.

Her head told her not to, but her heart begged her to read it.

It was written in a haste and she had trouble with some words because the paper was crinkly and had taken damage since it had been written.

_‘Dear Clara,_

_I wish I could contact you differently, but I have no number of yours and I need to act quickly. A letter from Lix arrived today. She has cancer and will probably die soon. I need to go to Spain, leaving you behind - for what I am sorry. But I need to face this chapter in my life, because I think it is the only way of having a future with you. This will be all a little shock, but be sure, that I will come back to Glasgow and to you, as soon as I can. I will try to reach you in your office from there._

_I know, I shouldn’t write this in a letter, but I love you and hope I can say those important words to you in person soon. I love you and I miss you!_

_R.’_

When she had reached the end of the letter, tears spilled down her face. How could she have ever believed he would betray her like this? How did it come, that she had so less confidence in herself and so less trust in him? It was not him who lacked trust, it had been her all the time.

It was like waking up out of a coma, emerging out of a daze she had banned herself weeks ago. Slowly Clara came back to life, feeling her blood rush through her ears, and hearing her heart hammer against her inside, calling out for her attention. Calling out, that she was about to make a huge mistake, in letting Randall go.

“Randall,” she looked up to the closed door, pressing the letter against her chest. “Randall!”

With quick strides she ran to the door and opened it, to find an empty floor in front of her. It had only been minutes, he couldn’t be far, could he?

“Randall!” she ran down the corridor where the way parted to the left and the right. Then her look fell down to the school yard, where the kids were about to go back inside and a single person was about to leave toward the exit. She drummed her fist against the glass, “Randall!”

It took him a moment, till he heard the deep drumming echoing over the place. He looked around and found some kids pointing out over his head and he followed the direction they pointed.

“Clara?”

When she was sure he had seen her, she ran down the stairs and reached the school yard breathless and with red cheeks. Stopping a few meters away from him, she held up the open letter. His eyes flickered between her and the paper, worried what she would do next.

“Forget tomorrow!” she said louder over the noise the kids made while going back inside.

For a moment he felt his heart stop beating and sink, assuming she now would send him away for good. Then she smiled, reading in him, seeing through him. Smiling.

“Idiot,” she closed the gap and flung herself with such force around him, that they spun around and almost lost balance.

Randall didn’t knew what was happening, but sensed that everything was about to become good again. “Clara?”

“I am sorry, I’m an idiot, I should have trusted you more,” she pressed herself against him, burying her face into the crook of his neck. “I love you. Always have.”

His hands clasped around her back, holding her close, feeling the warmth of her body against his while his fingers entangled with her hair, kissing her temples. “Then we are both idiots.”

Her hand landed on his cheek, that was still reddened from her earlier attack against him. Softly she caressed the spot, “I am sorry.”

“I deserved it,” he only said and then they met for a kiss. Long and tender, but eager.

There were many things to catch up now, sharing their undying affection for each other, was one of it.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> So this is it, almost. You haven't reached the end yet, go for the Epilogue and find out what happens next.


	28. 28_The Epilogue or Paris

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> They say Paris is wonderful when the summer comes to an end.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Go the last steps on this journey. And enjoy it!

Three month later - Paris

The summer was coming to an end in Europe and in the city of Paris. However, when there was a town, where the sun always was shining, it seemed to be Paris. In the morning hours the late-summer sun, bathed the streets, the houses and the people in a wonderful mix of blue and pink, of red and yellow. The air was warm and the wind a soft breeze. The city woke up, people chatted, cars and bicycles rolled over the old streets made of bricks and some doves hopped around to find some breakfast on the ground.

A young woman strolled over one of the wide bridges that led over the Seine, wearing sunglasses and was watching some kids that run to school under cackling laughter and badinages they played with each other. A boat floated down the river and some passengers waved to her, it made her smile and she waved back.

On the pavement a few artists had opened up their street shops, selling painted pictures, offering portraits and caricatures to the passing by tourists.

“Mademoiselle! How about a portrait?” a young, black haired, man asked in French.

“Pardon, ahm… I don’t speak French very well,” she told the young man in broken French.

“Ah, you’re English?”

“Yes, I am,” she walked closer, looking down at the pictures he offered. Nice drawn portraits of Paris in colour or in black and white. The Eiffel Tower, the Louvre, the Seine and while she glanced around she saw one picture that caught her attention. She took her sunglasses off.

The young artists saw what she had spotted, and bowed down to get it from the pavement and placed it for her onto an easel, “It’s one of the canals, on the other side of the town. One has a beautiful view at the Eiffel Tower and some gorgeous architecture buildings.”

The pictures was painted in oil and had a lot of blue and linden green in it, rounded by brown and yellow, and she could feel, that she was falling in love with the picture, “It’s beautiful.”

“A beautiful picture, for a beautiful woman,” the man smiled at her, slightly blushing, surprised over his own courage.

The clearing of a throat made the boy jump, and when he spotted an older man, with a stern expression, he started to feel uncomfortable in his skin. He was holding a cup holder with two coffees in one hand and had a camera hanging around his neck.

Randall kept his grim mien for a few more seconds, before he smirked at the man, “True words.”

“Where the hell have you been?” Clara stepped toward him, taking one of the coffees from him.

“You sent me for coffee!” he defended himself with played indignation.

“45 minutes ago! And the café is just around the corner.”

Randall smiled, “It’s not my fault, I got distracted - by beauty.” He had went lost in the architecture and the wide streets, and some kids that had drawn on the pavement with chalk.

Clara reached for the camera, and checked how many pictures he had already taken, “You take too many pictures.”

As an answer he took the camera into his free hand and held it up to his face, and took a picture of her, “You never can take enough pictures of beautiful things.”

For a moment they both had forgotten the young man aside from them, who quickly had realized that they were a love struck couple and he smiled coyly over them, when Clara went on her tip toes to give Randall a tender kiss.

When she wanted to break away, he slipped his hand around her waist and initiated another kiss, this time deeper and more affectionate. Clara didn’t protest, and brought one arm around his neck, digging her fingers into his curls. As an answer he purred and she smirked against his lips.

“I love you,” he whispered with a smile, brushing over her cheek, beaming at her, as if he hadn’t seen her for a while.

“Je t'aime aussi,” she smiled, smoothing out some wrinkles out of his shirt. It had an imprint of stars and galaxies on it and he was wearing no tie. A bit ago she had asked him, if she could suggest a new suit, and he had agreed nervously, unsure what she had been up to. In the end, though, he took a shine in the blue suit and the new shirt, without a vest and without a tie.

“Ah, I see, your French is getting better,” he teased, knowing she hadn’t learned many words yet, in fear she would embarrass herself.

She slapped him softly. Her language course would start on Monday. The private school she had found a job at, had offered her to help her with her French, before she would start teaching English. It was the same day, Randall would return to his old job. Head of news for the French version of _The Hour._

Clara ushered him over to the picture, “What do you think? I really like it.”

Randall first glanced at the picture and then the young man, his hands were still around Clara’s waist, “Yes, it’s a beautiful picture. Shall we buy it?”

“I would love to, I think it would fit into our bedroom?” she winked at the seller, and Randall shifted in her grip, feeling awkward for a second. Then he nodded and told the man, they would pick it up later, than he paid him the price he wanted, without bargain about it.

“What do you want to see next?” Randall sipped from his coffee.

“Can we go see the Louvre? And then go on top of the Eiffel Tower?”

Randall groaned, “We have seen the Louvre yesterday, and also the Tower. And the day before too.”

Clara turned and grabbed his jacket by his waist, smiling and grinning at him, with the tip of her tongue out, “Yes we have, but wasn’t that for research? I am sure it was for research.”

“Was it?” he tried to suppress a smile what didn’t work.

“I am sure it was,” she pressed a quick kiss on his lips. “So Mister Brown, how about going there again - simply for the fun of it?”

He never had thought, that his heart and soul could feel so light and happy. Reaching for her left hand, he brushed over the ring, that shined there, “Whatever you want, Mrs. Brown. Whatever you want.”

And so the story ends, of two people, colliding with each other, in a world full of unforeseen events, of struggle and misunderstandings. Also a world filled with love and the chance - when you work and fight hard enough - that in the end, everything will be fine. That everything will be wonderful.

And when Clara Oswald had said yes to Randall Brown in the small register office back in Glasgow, he had kissed her gently, before promising her the world, they knew, everything would be fantastic.

Someone once said, that you need a hand to hold for going across the world, and Randall Brown knew; he would never let go of Clara’s hand again.

End.

 

 

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I hope you are smiling. I cried after I had written it and then I smiled, grinned!  
> Thanks for following me on this journey, and if you are interested the next chapter is simply a big thank you and a bit of insight in thoughts about this story.


	29. XX- Writer's notes

Wow. Let me just say it once more: Wow! What a journey!

And there were times, I thought, no I hoped, it would never end, like a few of you hoped that too, as your messages told me. Yes, we could have go on and on, but all good things have to come to an end, eventually.

 

When I started this fic back in November last year, I didn’t know it would be like this, would be as long as it is now. I thought about 15, 16, 17 chapters, and now we have almost reached 30. With almost 90k words! That’s almost a book! (high pitched voice)

 

This was my first multi chapter fic, I started without knowing how it would end.  Yes, had an idea, I knew what conflicts I wanted to happen for Randall and Clara, but I didn’t know we would end up in Paris, married. I didn’t even know, if there would be a happy end, but I sensed there would be one. But I didn’t know how it would end, and when a writer already knows how it would end, where is the magic in it?

Who could have thought, that we - not only you, also me as the writer - would witness this long, sometimes suffering, journey of two people meeting and falling in love?

Sometimes I sat there beginning with a chapter and was surprised what turn it went in the end. But of course, I sometimes also sat there yelling and was frustrated over the outcome or blank pages.

It was worth the time I have invested, the feelings and the love for it, and you, my readers pushed me and made me happy with each of your comments and messages on tumblr.

 

And I hope, this story was what you have expected, and you had fun, maybe some tears and some “gosh, dam it!” moments, but I think and hope it was the rollercoaster for you I’d promised and teased you all along, and that you think now “yes!”.

 

When I wrote the Epilogue, I had the widest grin on my face, not because I thought it’s good stuff I write, no because I thought; finally they are happy, finally this journey made some sense in the end. Writing around on these characters for months, you not see them as fictional characters anymore, they become real, and hopefully they live happily ever after now Paris, or wherever.

 

I hope I answered all your questions, and all the thread in the story are explained. Well, I didn't told you about the missing books... :D this started as a joke and I never had a plan how to end it. But it was probably a teacher or someone who wanted to rescue all these books from bad students. I once read about a guy who stole many worthy books from the library to preserve them or what ever. 

My head canon for Freddy,.. he probably did Randall's job for a while and then he came to Paris (like in the Hour) on request of Randall. 

Nicola is still in Glasgow, spreading chaos and at Christmas she probably will receive a nice towel from Randall.

Danny and Sissy, get married one day and have all the little babies they want. Then one day they visit Randall and Clara in Paris. Randall and Danny will not become best friends, but they respect each other. 

 

 

There will be no sequel for this story, in case someone was wondering. What could come? What do you expect? Some want have them a family and babies, and I am no good with writing such thing, so I leave this all to your headcanons, you are welcome to share with me!

 

What I gonna do is, I write another story - when, I can’t tell - based on a gif set I made shortly before i started this fic, about Clara, abandoned by the Doctor in Glasgow (after he went for coffee) and she bumps into Randall, and yeah, that’s how it starts… so this will maybe turn out into a 12/Clara/Randall fic. Another journey, you might want to join me.

 

I also want to thank my part time beta fetchingsort, who sadly became unavailable after ⅓ of the story because life and job, but she helped me immensely and I want say thank you for the support.

 

And I want to thank - again - all the readers and the commentators, because without you, we writers wouldn’t write our stories out. Your support made me go on, your painful groans made me make a little happy dance (sadist I am) and you gave this story life. Thank you!

 

Just FUCKING THANK YOU!

 

Wow… yeah sorry, I’m still not over it, that this story is now finished.

 

Have a great day!

 

your humble writer

sam

 

 


End file.
